Avalon's Last Knight

by Jackson C. Garton

  When Arthur and I discuss the possibility of such a sword existing, we don’t explore that aspect of its mythos, for one simple reason—because I don’t want to think about it. The discussion ends with Arthur telling me he’d had a vision underwater—or ‘hallucination’, in his words—of a long-haired woman dressed in a white cloak handing him the weapon, and further claiming that once the sword was in his hands, the undertow had released his body and his desperate need to breathe had disappeared.

  During the several-hour-long conversation, I’d had to gloss over other details, like Morgan sleeping with Arthur and Mordred being the one who kills him in nearly every iteration, because I didn’t want to overload him with information, and because everything was starting to get to me. Arthur means so much to me, and the thought of him dying tears me in two. I can’t think about it. I won’t allow myself to think about it, to even consider it as a possible outcome.

  Our lives are already messy, and now this.

  * * * *

  When Mordy finally texts me, I nearly drop the phone from excitement. It’s been over two weeks since our last interaction and I have so much to tell him. His responses seem muted, so I do my best to keep my emotions in check.

  Mordy and I agree to meet at the café where we’d met for lunch last month.

  Neither of us have much of an appetite, and I’m not in the mood for coffee, so when Mordy suggests we go for a ride, I readily accept. The inside of his SUV is neat and trim, and it smells like he just wiped down the seats with rubbing alcohol. The abrasive odor immediately aggravates the insides of my nostrils. I’m not sure where he’s taking us, and I struggle to find the right words to say. Why do things have to be so difficult?

  As his black vehicle climbs the deserted hillside, a light drizzle falls from the sky, and the sound of thunder calls my attention toward the wild, now-gray yonder. The bright sun was shining not five minutes ago, without a cloud in sight for miles, and now it’s nowhere to be found, hidden somewhere in the dark, swollen canopy above. I roll down the window and stick out my hand to see if the ambience is as ominous as it appears, and soon discover that the temperature has decreased significantly, too.

  When the small stone structure comes into focus, I turn to Mordy. Little Henge. How Mordy was able to navigate through these hills without a GPS is beyond me. The terrain isn’t the absolute worst or anything, but one wrong turn and you could easily find yourself with a blown-out tire. He unbuckles his seat belt and removes his phone from its holder on the dash, and returns my stare.

  “Come on,” he says finally. “A little rain never hurt anyone.” His tone is unexpectedly playful, light. I’m glad.

  “Except for the Wicked Witch of the West,” I reply. Mordy smiles and bites his bottom lip. “All it took was a bucket of the stuff to destroy her entire gig.”

  “She was green, we’re Brown. And made of tougher stuff than smoke. Now get out.”

  The ground sags beneath our weight, and pools of water collect in our footprints as we slosh through the wet grass. My canvas high-tops are soaked within seconds, and for once in my life, I’m glad I had the sense to don a hoodie during the middle of summer.

  When we come to the hill where Little Henge sits, Mordy is the first to discover a set of wooden boards that have been nailed into the side of the mound. He insists I go first, making a basket with his hands because the top step is still too high for me to reach, as if someone is trying to keep outsiders from visiting the man-made marvel.

  Once we’re both over the hill, we slog through the muddy grass in silence, the rainfall more violent and aggressive against my black hood. Mordy’s wearing a pair of glasses today, which seems like a bad decision, because the lenses are completely spattered with water. There’s no way he can see anything, so I take his hand in mine and we make our way to the stone replica.

  Despite having lived in Avalon for several years, I’ve never actually been up here. Beer cans and discarded plastic wrappers litter the tall green grass surrounding the stone arrangement. I let go of Mordy’s hand and begin collecting the trash to put in my hoodie pocket.

  “Lance,” he says, the wind now playing with his sopping-wet dreadlocks. “Hey!”

  There’s so much trash everywhere that it looks like someone used this hill as their personal landfill. The thought sends me into a rage, and I frenetically fill my pockets with the garbage until there’s so much shit stuffed in there that I can’t fit any more.

  “Lance!” he shouts again. “Lance, listen to me!” I turn around. Mordy’s on his knees, completely drenched, his once-white outfit now covered in grass and mud. “There’s no use. It doesn’t matter what you do. You’ll never be able to clean it all.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “I can take my hoodie off and use it as a bag. This is fucked-up, man.” I shake a handful of discarded candy bar wrappers at him. “Just look at all of this shit!”

  “No, you can’t,” he replies, rainwater filling his mouth as he speaks. He spits. “Because the trash belongs here. It belongs to the Henge, yo.”

  I remove my hood and gawk at him. “What the hell are you even talking about?”

  The rain is hammering down on us like little fists, and I can barely stand, the pressure is so great.

  “Listen to me! The trash…it’s part of the Henge,” he repeats. “It belongs here. The more you clean, the more it generates. There’s some invisible fucked-up trash factory pumpin’ this shit out.”

  “Do you know how insane you sound right now?”

  Mordy hoots. “Your boyfriend literally found a sword in a lake! This is the only logical explanation there could be. The Henge wants to keep people out. It knows trash and shit makes it unattractive or whatever. Trust me.”

  I look at the contents in my hands. A two-liter, an empty box of tampons, some shoestrings. He’s right. Why the fuck would anybody come up here just to throw this kind of shit away?

  “But why?” I ask, the rain no longer waging an all-out attack on my sweatshirt.

  “Look around, dawg. We’re up on this hill alone, man. No one around for miles. I’m not even sure how I got out here. I just drove with no knowledge of anything, and bam, my car ended up here. Something compelled me. I don’t know where the fuck I am.”

  “Why would it make trash, though? That makes no fuckin’ sense. This is a sacred spot.”

  “Like I said, maybe it makes the trash to keep people away. Dude, this grass is tall as fuck. Ain’t nobody been up here in months. Who knows what the hell is living in here? But one thing’s for sure… Little Henge is protecting itself.”

  When I survey the sky overhead, I can see where the clouds begin and where the sun ends. Darkness has settled on this part of the mountain, and this part only. We aren’t even that high above the ground where Mordy’s car is parked, but down below, a blanket of silvery mist has fallen on the grass. From this far away it looks like an enormous, glistening spiderweb.

  I take a giant step toward the ground clouds, and Mordy grabs my arm. “Whoa, easy there. You tryin’ to break your neck?”

  “What?” I ask, the glamour wearing off. “What are we doing?”

  “Uh… You were trying to walk straight off this fuckin’ hill, I think.”

  “Why are we here?” I shout at the stones. “Why have you brought us here? What do you want from us? I’m not here to fuck around, not when my friend’s life is in danger.” Mordy places his hand on my shoulder to comfort me, but I shrug it off. “I’m being serious here! If you have something to say to us, you can come out and fuckin’ say it because you’re wasting my time.”

  “Lance.”

  My eyes dart to Mordy’s. “No, now’s not the time for patience. You know about the card, and now we have a fuckin’ sword. Arthur’s time on Earth grows short, and here we are bein’ dicked around by some ancient Lego set.”

  Thunder cracks directly above our heads, followed by three flashes of lightning that strike the center of the stones, and Mordy shields my head
with his arms, the both of us cowering on the ground. The grass is on fire now, engulfed in alternating flames of silver and gold like an elaborate display of holiday lights. A figure materializes within the smoke—a tall, raven-haired woman wearing a headdress made of feathers, adorned in a shimmering, fluid gown that seems forged from the fire itself. When she steps through the flames I can see that her face is painted white, and that she is accompanied by two large flying bats, one hovering above each shoulder.

  A white face, two bats, surrounded by a flurry of flames. Why does she look so familiar?

  “Holy shit. I think that’s Mictēcacihuātl,” I say. One of the few goddesses I remember from my research. The Aztec Goddess of Death. Why is she here? Of all places?

  “What? Who is that?”

  For a second, I’d forgotten that Mordy is sitting right next to me, clearly taken aback by whatever it is we’re now seeing.

  “The Queen of Mictlān, an Aztec Underworld deity. It just has to be her.”

  “Oh, her!” Mordy says sarcastically. “Why didn’t ya just say so in the first place? Why is she here?”

  The queen stops before us and secures a strong hand on my head, flames still roaring behind her.

  “Are you the one known as Lance A. Lotte?” she asks, her voice somewhere in between gentle and demanding. “The one who has summoned me here today?”

  I have no fucking idea if I was the one who summoned her here today, but have no intention of letting her know that, so I shrug and say, “Yes, my name is Lance. And maybe?” Not daring to meet her burning gaze.

  “Arise, young warrior.” Her voice booms across the hill, and I do as she says, because she is the Goddess of the Underworld, and probably not one to be fucked with. I’m not a warrior, but this might not be the best time to discuss that bit of info.

  She produces a dagger from within her long, bell-shaped sleeve. A short blade made from a black crystal, attached to a hilt that is decorated in snake carvings, made from gold.

  “W-whoa!” I stammer. “I’m not a warrior, and trust me, you don’t want my heart. It’s very weak and not courageous at all. Also, I’m kinda attached to it, seeing as how I need it to live.”

  The bats screech loudly behind her, and I have to cover my ears to muffle the terrible sound. From what little I’ve read on the subject matter, Aztec priests seem like they were a brutal bunch, known for human sacrifices and ritualistic cannibalism. Eating hearts, drinking blood, that kind of shit. She points the dagger at my chest, where the scars from my surgery are.

  “Your heart is strong and plenty courageous,” she says. “Not many are brave enough to call on me these days. I feel like I have been asleep for centuries.”

  That’s because you have. Things have taken a weird turn. An Aztec death goddess is talking to me because I shouted at a bunch of rocks, and now she’s telling me I’m a brave warrior—a first, for sure.

  “Your highness,” I say, “I must admit that I had no intention of calling you here today, and if I did, I apologize, because it was an accident. I don’t want you to think I am some powerful shaman or anything like that. This has got to be a mistake.”

  Mictēcacihuātl laughs. “Who determines what is powerful and what is not? Is there a test, or perhaps a battle of wills? How does one know if they are powerful if they never have the chance to prove it?”

  Mordy is still sitting in silence, clearly shaken by whatever is happening. He won’t even look at me, his eyes set on the fire behind Mictēcacihuātl.

  “Listen to me, little warrior, for I must return to Mictlān soon. Your heart spoke to me, awakened me from a great slumber because you prepare for battle, am I right?”

  “Yes,” I reply weakly. “You are.”

  “Take this blade, the Xiuhcoatl. It is my brother’s, but you must do your deed soon, because he will realize it is gone and return for it if you are not swift, and he will eat your heart if he finds it missing.”

  Mordy stirs and acknowledges the fire. “Wait, are those the flames of hell? Or is this all one big fuckin’ hallucination?”

  The Aztec queen looks at him for the first time. “That all depends… Are you interested in returning with me? I do enjoy a man in white.”

  I’m not sure, but I think the queen is hitting on Mordy, which could be good or bad depending upon his reaction. She is married to the King of the Underworld, after all.

  When Mordy looks at her, clearly beguiled by the syrupy words she’s speaking, I place a foot in between their bodies. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Kill the oathbreaker,” they both say, at the same time.

  “Emrys,” Mordy says, the effects of her spell wearing off. “We must kill Emrys, Lance.”

  “I thought you said there were ways to hurt him that didn’t involve causing him physical pain!”

  Mordy shakes his head. “That was before the girl went missing. Now he must be stopped. We can’t do that with evil eyes or dolls, man. The only way to do it is by sticking that fucking thing through his black heart!”

  Mordy and I argue like this for a few minutes, until I realize the crackling flames beside us have gone out. The rain has stopped as well, and the sky is clearing. When I search for the Aztec Death Goddess, she’s nowhere to be found. She’s taken with her the bats, and possibly the trash, as the circle is wholly free from garbage now.

  As Mordy and I walk to the car, my thoughts are soon joined by another voice—her voice.

  “Lance, you have the heart of a warrior and the spirit of a panther. Don’t be afraid to listen to both if you find yourself in danger. When the time comes, you must look deep inside to unleash your true might. The blade will help you end the warlock’s life, but you will have to give something in return. How far you are willing to go to make this trade is up to you.”

  “She talkin’ to you, ain’t she?” Mordy shakes his head, placing a hand on the hood of his car. “Ask her if she like a man in black? Because my year-in-white is about to end, and I’m going to burn every last fuckin’ piece of white clothing I have.”

  Mordy and I don’t speak on the way back to town—the sound of hip-hop blaring from his stereo speakers fills the uneasy air instead. I’m not sure I’d know what to say even if he did want to talk.

  There’s no use in denying anything Mictēcacihuātl said, because even though most gods and goddesses spend much of their time tricking humans, or manipulating them to further some kind of fucked-up agenda, nothing she’d said could be misconstrued to mean anything other than the truth. In order to kill the warlock, free Morgana and save the king, I will have to trade something precious, dear to me. The plan is that simple, but is it, really?

  It’s not quite eight o’clock when we pull up to the front of Baubles & Books. Gwen and Morgan are already sitting outside, eating ice cream, when we get out of the car. Since the encounter with Mictēcacihuātl, I’ve had a killer migraine, and no amount of Tylenol has helped, either. Gwen picks up on my sour mood immediately, and hounds me about eating better, hydrating myself. I don’t have the energy to argue with her, so I allow her to force a half-eaten sundae on me while Morgan’s eyes follow my movements like an owl watching a mouse.

  “Where the hell have you two been?” Gwen asks. “Because y’all look real fucked-up.”

  Mordy speaks up before I have the chance. “We were visited by this ancient Aztec chick and her flying bats at Little Henge. Walking through flames, pulling a straight-up Galadriel on us. She gave Lance here a snake knife and instructed him to kill the Merlin with it.”

  The Merlin aka Emrys Caerwyn aka Emmett Crabtree aka the owner of Camelot Crafts aka my boss.

  It’s the first time anyone’s actually said his real name in our circle.

  How the fuck I’m supposed to actually go back to work after receiving this dagger, and being told how to kill him, I don’t know. Working two nights a week has been strenuous enough, but I don’t want to quit just yet because I still owe Arthur money for my portion of the rent and b
ills, and because we don’t know everything yet.

  “If we’re still going to the cemetery, we’d better hurry. It’ll be dark soon, and we wouldn’t want y’all turning into pumpkins, now would we?” Gwen runs her finger across Morgan’s hand and points at the chocolate puddle of sprinkles in front of me. “And you have to eat.”

  The cemetery gate is locked when we arrive, but I anticipated this, and had said as much on the way over, because the graveyard closes its doors at five o’clock sharp. Mordy parks two blocks away from our destination, to hide his car from being seen, and I lead them to an opening in the back. When we were kids, Gwen and I would routinely sneak in here at night and rearrange the floral pieces. Not something I’m proud of, if we’re being completely honest, but they say vision is 20/20 in hindsight, so…

  Thankfully someone has torn a fresh hole in the once-repaired fence, and we climb through it, carefully avoiding the protruding pieces of rusted metal. When we’re safely on the other side, I ask Gwen and Morgan why they specifically wanted to come to this cemetery.

  “Because I dream about it every night,” Morgan replies. “I’ve been here for seventy-two days now, and every night those gates open for me with ease, and I spend the entire fuckin’ time looking for something.”

  “What are you looking for?” Gwen asks.

  Something must’ve happened between those two, and I’m surprised Gwen hasn’t mentioned it to me. She usually loves to tell me every detail of her love life despite my objections that I don’t need to know the color of her girlfriend’s nipples, but something about the way she interacts with Morgan feels different, almost secretive. I’m not going to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but Morgan is still possessed by whatever-the-fuck, and Gwen could be messing with fire. I watch the two of them match each other’s pace and stroke each other’s arms. It’s a lovely sight.