Avalon's Last Knight

by Jackson C. Garton

  Fast-forward to my freshman year of college, and my little world is rocked when I learn about brujería through school. Three pages into the textbook and I’m Googling everything under the sun that has to do with Mexican witchcraft—hechizos, shape-shifting, corn shuck dolls, hexes, bone divination. Stuff I had always assumed was too dark, too black for my soul.

  I must have blown through half of my student loans on those books alone.

  But it had been worth it.

  Looking into Mordy’s eyes, seeing that same rage reflected in them, tells me it was worth it.

  “Okay,” he says. “I get it. So practicing black magick and calling yourself an actual sorcerer sounds kinda weird. I feel you, I do. But tell me this…if you had the power to stop those old white ladies out there on the street from straight staring at you for no fuckin’ reason, you wouldn’t do it? If you could produce an evil eye at a moment’s notice when some asshole in blue pulls you over when you weren’t speeding, you wouldn’t do it?”

  His words make sense. Of course they do. Like pieces of a puzzle, they align perfectly with the injustice that witches have endured since the advent of monotheism. Prejudice and discrimination have been a plague on society for far too long, and when you add racism in there, it’s like a pot on the stove just waiting to boil over.

  “I’m not talking black magick like poisoning people, bro. I’m talking about justice. The line that lies in between right and wrong, that gray area.”

  I wag my head. “You’re right,” I say, finally. “But how do we make things better without hurting people? I ain’t into violence, man.”

  A light, similar to the one Arthur gets in his eyes, appears in Mordy’s. “Neither am I,” he says. “But violence isn’t necessarily the opposite of healing, bro. What if I told you that there was a way to hurt someone without actually hurting them?”

  His line of thinking is sort of confusing, but I decide to go along with it anyway. Mordy must see this in my face, because he excitedly scoots his chair closer to me and brushes his shoulder against mine.

  “All right,” he says. “Now we’re talking. So, I have some questions that you can hopefully help me with.”

  “What do you want to know?” I ask.

  “The first thing I want to know is if you know that Emmett Crabtree used to go by the name Emrys Caerwyn.”

  Chapter Six

  Morgana Le Fay

  For the next week or so, Mordy and I are inseparable.

  Before work, after work and during work, Mordy and I spend most of our time discussing Avalon and Emrys through texts. Most of it seems unbelievable to me, because I’ve known Emmett since I was a child and have never had any problems with him—he’s always been a sweet, kind, old man. Vacant, yes. Vicious, never.

  But ever since Mordy and his sister arrived in Avalon a few weeks ago, Emmett has been in a foul mood, even lashing out at Caspian for small, insignificant things, like not emptying the wastebasket in Emmett’s office—something I’ve never done, or seen anyone do, not even Emmett.

  Today I was supposed to have lunch with Arthur, but he’d had to cancel because of some mix-up at work. He’s been acting weird around me, too, going silent anytime I talk about Mordy, or mention that we’re hanging out. I’m not sure if something has happened at work, or if his family has been harping on him about not starting school in August, and I’m too afraid to ask him because he’s been in such a dark mood.

  During my short morning shift, I receive a text from Mordy, asking if I would be interested in having lunch at his house. Since Arthur canceled our plans, I agree to it, because I’m eager to meet Tío Myrddin, and because I’m curious as to what their farmhouse looks like. From the way Mordy talks about his uncle’s home, my imagination is leaning toward something grand and showy, like something from a gothic romance novel. The anticipation is killing me.

  Mordy and Morgan show up, and Morgan waves at me with enthusiasm through the tempered glass window out front. Emmett must have sensed their presence, because he emerges from his office in the back immediately and stands behind the counter, folding his arms. Pacing back and forth like wildcats watching their prey, the twins occupy the sidewalk, never breaking eye contact with my boss.

  “Lance,” he says, startling me, his voice sharp and almost menacing.

  I stop counting the change in the cash register and look up, afraid he’s going to tell me to never come back, or ask me to call the cops, ultimately forcing me to quit.

  “Those kids out there are a bad bunch. Mark my word, they will bring this town nothing but despair.”

  The twins must know he’s talking about them, because they stop walking and turn to face him. I don’t really want to involve myself in their drama, so I chuckle and place a hand on Emmett’s shoulder, hoping to lighten the situation, but my stomach lurches as soon as my hand makes contact with his shirt, and I stumble backward a few steps. Emmett tilts his head slightly, and rests his eyes on me for a split second before returning them to Mordy and Morgan.

  “Caspian tells me you’ve been reading a book about Santería. Careful now, better not dabble in the dark arts like that. Voodoo is not for children.”

  From the way Emmett says it, it sounds like Caspian has been keeping tabs on me. Snively asshat.

  Clutching my sides, I respond, “With all due respect, voodoo and Santería are not the same thing, Mr. Caerwyn.” Using his former alias like this is dangerous, I know, but he’s pissed me off, and possibly even hurt me somehow, because the burning sensation in my stomach won’t go away. Morgan bangs on the window, and I hold up a hand. We don’t need a repeat of two weeks ago, but I’m aware that I need to get out of the shop ASAP.

  “I’ll be out in a second,” I say. “I just have to get my bag.”

  After I turn around, Emmett pushes my bag into my chest like it repulses him to touch it. There’s no way he could have gone to the break room to retrieve it and returned in the mere seconds it took for me to talk to Morgan. My hand burns now and feels like it’s blistering—the hand I’d used to touch Emmett.

  “Are you scheduled to work tomorrow?” he asks. “I can’t remember.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “In the morning.”

  “Take the day off,” he says. “Caspian has been asking for more hours. He can cover it.” Now’s not the time to argue with my boss about cutting my hours for no good reason, so I nod and punch out my time card. He doesn’t respond to me when I tell him goodbye, and I try not to take it personally, because I have no idea what the fuck is even happening.

  On the way to their uncle’s house, I debate whether I should tell Mordy and Morgan about my short but bizarre interaction with Emmett—how my hand burns like I’ve just taken an iron to it, how my bag appeared out of thin air or how he didn’t seem to mind when I called him Caerwyn. My mental state is still pretty frazzled, so I decide to tell them later, when we’re closer to the old farmhouse and farther away from the store.

  When we pull up to their house, the scenery does not disappoint. With an enormous yard full of scattered, blooming white and pink dogwood trees, the house looks like it was wrenched straight from a fairy tale. The cracking blue paint and missing side paneling add to its ethereal ambiance. Their uncle comes out to greet us, his hands and green shirt covered in a powdery substance, flour maybe.

  “You must be Lance!” he shouts, walking over toward Mordy’s Escalade. “How do!”

  I take his coated hand and shake it with vigor. How I could have missed this man all of these years is beyond me. Never in my life have I laid eyes on him—not at the grocery store, not at one of the two gas stations here in town, or even at the post office. Standing beside his niece and nephew, their likeness is uncanny, and I wonder if he looked like them at their age.

  “Well,” he says, with a thick country accent. “Come on inside. Them beans and cornbread ain’t gonna eat themselves. And, Lance, I didn’t put no ham in the pot and used Crisco in the bread, so you’d better eat as much as you can…s
eeing as how my kinfolk are too good for their uncle’s cookin’.”

  After lunch, Mordy and Tío Myrddin insist on cleaning the dishes and the kitchen, so Morgan shows me around the farm while we snack on sour blackberries from vines growing alongside the house. The sun bathes the spacious green fields in a delicious white light, and birds fill the air with their song. An enormous honeysuckle shrub lends us its fresh, saccharine scent, making the scenery even more storybook-like with every deep inhale. The farmhouse, Morgan explains, is where they live, but the two barn-like structures out back are off limits to anyone outside of their family.

  “But since you’re with me,” she says, her hands on the barn door, a hint of mischief in her tone, “you should be fine. Oh, real quick—do you have any amulets or talismans or anything like that on you?”

  I shove my hands into my jeans pockets, feeling for anything that might contain magickal properties, and come up empty-handed. The only necklace I’m wearing is tucked underneath my shirt, the plastic charm that I never take off, the one Arthur gave me, and when I produce it, Morgan shields her eyes like she’s staring into the sun.

  “Fuck, that’ll do it!” she screams. “Take it off, or cover it up. Do something, quick!”

  I grab the black ball suddenly, protectively cupping it in one hand.

  “N-no,” I stammer. “I can’t take it off.”

  Morgan removes one hand, and peeks at me through her middle and ring fingers.

  “What?” she asks. “Why not? Who gave it to you?”

  For some reason, just thinking about Arthur around Morgan makes me uncomfortable.

  “A friend of mine,” I manage to finally say. “A close friend.”

  “Step away from the barn.” Morgan’s voice is strange, commanding. “Stand here.”

  I do as she says, and she takes my hand into hers, gently prying my fingers from the charm.

  “Can I at least check it out?”

  I drop my hand and allow her to fondle the necklace with slender, delicate fingers. Her white nail polish is perfect, not a chip or blemish in sight, like the rest of her hair and body. When she moves in closer to examine the cheap piece of plastic, I can smell the onion that she had for lunch on her breath.

  “Ah,” she coos. “I see now.” Our eyes meet and I feel trapped, frozen from a mixture of cycling emotions. “Him.” Her eyes narrow and she takes a step forward, stomping on my shoes. “Do I scare you, Lance?”

  I throw my hands up and try to put some distance between us. “Uh, I think maybe we should head back to your uncle’s house.” This is bad. Really bad.

  A bellow escapes from somewhere deep within Morgan as she places her hands around my neck. “I can take him from you. He belongs to me.” Whoever is choking me, whatever is choking me, has taken over Morgan’s body and is controlling her movements.

  There’s no way she’s the one steering this ship at the moment.

  I don’t know what else to do, so I sweep my foot underneath hers and bring us both crashing down onto the ground. Her legs coil around my torso, and I struggle beneath her crushing weight, my stupid genes failing me once again. I hate being so fucking small.

  “Pretty little knight,” she taunts, her voice distorted, no longer recognizable. “Where is your king now? Is his castle nearby?” Morgan slides her hand up my shirt and caresses my chest, her wandering fingers soon finding their way to my necklace. “Not that it matters, of course, because you’ll do. What was it you said the last we met? Ah yes, a life for a life?”

  “Morgan!” I shout. “Morgan!” I writhe in between her thighs, trying to escape.

  Morgan—or Morgan’s body that’s possibly being controlled by another entity—rams her fist into my nose hard, and blood spurts out of my nostrils, soon blanketing my chin and cheeks. I don’t know what else to do, because I’m not a large man and there’s no one else around, so I try to reason with the visiting phantom, or whatever the fuck it is.

  “Morgan. Morgana,” I gurgle. “Morgana le Fay.” The last word barely breaks through the steady brook now occupying half of my face. Please work. “Beneath the hallowed moon, we shall meet, free of malice, and twice as sweet. Please accept this blessing with a smile, and free yourself, from whatever ails you, for a while.” It’s an old folk spell of Gwen’s. I hope it works.

  Magick swallows the both of us, swirling around Morgan like a black, misty cyclone, eventually releasing her from the spiritual hold, then lifts our bodies several feet into the air and drops us with as much force as the Hellevator.

  When my breathing finally steadies and I roll onto my side, I see Morgan sprawled out, spread eagle, her white pantsuit covered in my blood. I crawl over to her and check her pulse. She’s breathing heavily, and not moving, but at least she isn’t dead. My nose is throbbing now, and I may have sprained my ankle in the fall. God, I hope it’s a sprain, and not something worse. A brief moment later I bend down and scoop Morgan into my arms. I don’t know how far I’ll be able to carry her on my bum ankle, but I’m still going to try.

  Thankfully, Mordy sees me dragging her body across the field a few minutes later, and rushes to help.

  “What’s happened?” Mordy’s eyes are focused on his sister. “Where did all of this blood come from?” he asks, his voice manic.

  “Don’t worry,” I croak. My knees buckle beneath my weight, and I crumple onto the ground like a piece of paper. “It isn’t hers.”

  “Dios mío!” Mordy’s uncle shouts from the porch. “Mordy, you get your sister, and I’ll get Lance.”

  * * * *

  Outside, a veil of darkness has fallen by the time I regain consciousness, and moonlight pours through a pair of sheer scarlet curtains. The twins and their uncle are positioned around me in a triangular manner, one family member near my head and two near my feet. When I try to raise my head, Morgan reaches out to help steady me, but I can’t stop from flinching at her touch. Tío Myrddin places his hand on Morgan’s shoulder and she slumps forward, letting go of my hand.

  “I am so sorry.” Her words spill out of her mouth, pooling at her knees. “I don’t know what happened out there. But Mordy tells me I did this to you. Oh, I’m so sorry, Lance.” She puts her head in her hands and starts sobbing, the force of each sob shaking the floor beneath my body. That thing—whatever it was—had very little to do with the sad and broken woman sitting next to me.

  “Morgan,” I say, calmly. “Has this happened before?”

  “Do you mean blacking out and assaulting people, or just the blacking out?” Mordy asks. “Because yes, the latter happens all the time.”

  “I see.” I ease back down onto the pillow and gaze up at the ceiling, slightly turning my head to the left and to the right. We must be inside of Tío Myrddin’s farmhouse. The ceilings are high and beautiful, just as I had expected, with Christmas lights nailed all over the walls, and strands of what appear to be garland hanging from the chandelier in the center of the room.

  To our right is an enormous, painted mural of the Virgen de Regla, and to our left is an altar covered in glass candles, flowers, dried fruit, feathers, coins and incense, dedicated to Elegua, a spirit who aids in protection and blocking negative energy. Mordy was right, I realize—it does somewhat resemble the Santisma Muerte shrines in Mexico.

  “Why do you have garland hanging from that light fixture?”

  “Defense,” Myrddin replies. “From psychic attacks. And to bring good luck.”

  “Plus Tío Myrddin loves Christmas,” Morgan adds, obviously pleased with my question. “Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

  Morgan and I barely know each other. We’ve met a few times, and nearly every time, violence has played a role in our meetings. I glance at her. Sitting next to her uncle and twin brother, she seems small, demure, meek even, not at all like the overpowering, colossal presence I encountered out by the barns. When our eyes meet, I think about what she said, about Arthur. Now I know I’m all wrapped up in this myth shit, and I’ve only ever toyed with
the possibility of it being real, but after today, denial isn’t an option any longer, especially since Arthur pulled that fucking death card the other day.

  I rub my arms and close my eyes again. Morgana had said something else that really bothered me, something about taking Arthur away. This is a piercing thought that I don’t ever allow myself to have—the idea that someone could steal Arthur from me, that he will eventually get tired of my self-absorbed, heady bullshit and find comfort in someone else’s arms. The emotion this thought provokes is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Devastation, despair, isolation—all of it could be made true if Arthur decides that I’m not worth the wait. I have to tell him before it’s too late.

  “Hey,” Mordy says, looking down at me, a black stone dangling from his neck. “Why don’t you go upstairs and clean off? I’ll get your bag and you can borrow a shirt of mine.”

  After I clean the crusted blood from my mouth, I inspect my nose in the bathroom mirror. No swelling or enlargement of any kind. This amazes me because Morgana was a jackhammer and I was the road beneath her fucking rage. My ankle doesn’t hurt anymore, either. Weird.

  “Here you go.” Mordy brings me a shirt and I switch it out with the one I’m currently wearing. When I rejoin him, he’s sitting cross-legged at a coffee table in the middle of the room. His bedroom is small like my dorm, and basic, austere. No posters, no calendars, only a huge cross hanging above his bed. Since he’s only staying here for the summer, it makes sense.

  When I get closer, I see that he is wearing a binder underneath a white, ribbed tank top. His muscles are well-defined, and his shirt accentuates their shape. I stare at them with envy.

  “Have a seat,” he says, patting the floor next to him. So I do.

  On the coffee table is a mound of red and black stones, beautiful and smooth. I take one into my hand and turn it over, only to discover symbols on the stones.