Fall of Knight

by Peter David

  “Mr. President,” said Arthur, and Stockwell responded in kind. They shook hands firmly. Gwen extended her hand as well, and Stockwell shook it, smiling warmly. Percival contented himself to incline his head slightly from a short distance away, which suited Stockwell fine. Stockwell had never known quite what to make of Percival, never fully understanding what his involvement with Arthur was. He’d always suspected, deep down, that Percival was some sort of muscle who did Arthur’s dirty work for him.

  Then Arthur and Gwen turned toward Ron, and their greeting for him was a bit less formal. Arthur wrapped both of his hands around Ron’s outstretched one and shook it warmly, while Gwen simply disdained handshakes of any kind and instead embraced him. In this case, Percival did approach him and shook Ron’s hand warmly. The two men had shared a life-and-death adventure together, and that sort of escapade always served to forge a bond that was not easily broken.

  “It’s great to see you again,” Ron said.

  “Indeed. In the case of Mrs. Penn, one would almost say it was miraculous,” said Stockwell, gesturing for Arthur and Gwen to sit. They did so, and Stockwell sat as well. He interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on his desk. “So, Arthur…it seems we have ourselves a bit of a situation.”

  “It does indeed.”

  “One for which—and I don’t say this accusingly, but merely as a statement of fact—a number of people in my administration are getting their heads handed to them, both by the press and the general public.”

  “It’s such hypocrisy,” said Gwen.

  Stockwell glanced at her, his face puckered with curiosity. “Hypocrisy?”

  “Arthur showed me the cards, the letters, the communications from all over the world while I was in a coma. And nine out of ten of them—maybe more than that—said the exact same thing: ‘We’re praying for a miracle.’ With that many people praying together, is it so impossible for us to say, ‘Guess what? It was a miracle. Let’s be thankful,’ and move on?”

  “On a logical basis, Mrs. Penn, no, it’s not impossible at all. As a matter of practicality,” the president said grimly, “it is completely impossible. Miracles are what you pray for. Results are what you get. And although I’ve no doubt there are a number of people out there who are perfectly willing to accept your recovery as divine providence, end of story…there are far more who see it only as the beginning of the story. Your medical condition was too widely disseminated in the media. The damage done to you by the assassin’s bullets was examined by medical experts in excruciating detail, all on the world stage. Doctor-patient confidentiality? Forget it. That ship sailed the moment pieces of your head exploded.”

  “I’d forgotten how you have a way of putting things, Terrance,” said Gwen.

  “I’m the leader of the free world, Gwen. I don’t have time to mince words. This has to be attended to, and I’m looking to know what it is that you’re going to do about it. And I need to know…if it’s true.”

  “It?”

  Nothing was said for a moment, then Ron loudly cleared his throat. “Arthur…I, uhm…I felt he deserved to know about your true background. Where you really came from. Who, uh…”

  “Who I am?” Arthur said gently.

  “In so many words: Yes.”

  “It’s all right, Ron. The development is not unanticipated. How did he take it?”

  “About as well as could be expected.”

  “I’m sitting right here,” Stockwell pointed out.

  “Very well, Terrance,” Arthur said reasonably, turning to Stockwell. “How are you dealing with the revelation, as it were?”

  “It’s…a lot to process, Arthur, I have to admit. The entire notion behind myth and legend is that that’s…that’s all they are. Fantasies. Epic tales that get passed along from one generation to the next. They’re bigger than life. And now I’m being told that, here you are, King Arthur, seated right in front of me.”

  “Do you believe in God, sir?” Percival suddenly spoke up.

  “Of course I do,” Stockwell said unhesitatingly.

  “So why should believing in Arthur Rex be that much of a problem?”

  “Because he’s not God. He’s a man, flesh and blood.”

  “As was the Christian savior, as I recall. If he walked in here now and proclaimed that he had returned, would you believe him? Or would you figure him to be a madman.”

  “Truthfully, probably the latter.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Gwen said, “but I find that kind of sad. That we’ve reached a point in our society that…I don’t know.”

  “Men cling to faith as their reason to believe in God,” said Arthur, smiling sadly. “Sometimes it seems to me that their faith also prevents them from believing as well. People have no trouble handling the divine…as long as it’s a safe distance away. How are we to aspire to be closer to God when, if He comes closer to us, we head in the other direction.”

  “Are you now saying you’re God?” asked Stockwell.

  “Hardly. On the other hand, if He presented himself to me, I would certainly be more inclined to give Him the benefit of the doubt than to dismiss Him out of hand.”

  “Fair enough. But the fine line we walk, Arthur, is that those who claim to be nearer our God tend to get on the wrong side of the American people, since everyone wants to believe that they themselves have their own personal connection with the almighty. Ron is telling me stories about the Holy Grail, and I’m not certain how to—”

  “You could try showing them this,” suggested Percival. He reached deep into his coat, and when he withdrew his hand, there was a gleaming goblet in it.

  Stockwell gaped at it for a moment. Then he started to reach for it before reflexively pulling his hand back. He stared at it with uncertainty. “Are you saying…that’s it?” Percival nodded. “May I…?”

  Percival glanced at Arthur, who nodded slightly. The Grail Knight strode forward and, rather than handing it to Stockwell, placed it in the dead center of his desk. He took several steps back as Stockwell just stared at it.

  “Breathe, Terrance,” Arthur said gently.

  Stockwell exhaled heavily, not realizing until that moment that he’d been holding his breath. Slowly, his hands trembling in spite of himself, Stockwell reached out and took the Grail carefully, balancing it with both hands. Then he experimentally shifted the cup from one hand to the other. “It’s…colder than I expected,” he said finally.

  “Did you think it would be scalding to the touch?” asked Arthur.

  “I’m…not sure. I’m not sure what I…” He shook his head and placed the Grail gingerly back down on the desk. “I thought it would be…revelatory in some way. That I would hold it and—”

  “Be instantly nearer to Jesus?” asked Percival.

  “I suppose that sounds ridiculous.”

  “It doesn’t sound any one way or the other. Your expectations are what they are. No one’s going to gainsay you.”

  Stockwell nodded, although it was hard to know whether he’d actually heard what Percival had just said. Instead he said, “I was skeptical of everything Ron told me. Then we brought in Nellie, and she told me practically the exact same story. Just enough variances to make the differing point of view believable, but in all the major aspects, the stories matched up.”

  “So you believe, then.”

  “I would say, Arthur, that I’m perhaps eighty percent of the way there. My concern is this: If it’s this much effort for me to believe, how in the world are we going to convince the American people? Or the world? How are we going to say that Arthur Penn was truly King Arthur, and that he found the Holy Grail and used it to cure his wife?”

  “First of all, Percival found the Grail,” Arthur corrected him.

  “Well, that solves the problem then,” he said sarcastically. “That small clarification is just going to do wonders for the way this will play in Paducah.”

  “I’m not concerned about how this will ‘play,’ Terrance. I’m concerned about t
he truth.”

  “And I’m concerned about all of it, Arthur. Are you actually suggesting that we go public with the entire story?”

  “Absent anyone innocent getting hurt by it, the truth is generally the preferable way in which to approach all matters,” Arthur said.

  Even Gwen looked uncertain at that notion. She reached over and took his hand. “Arthur, are you sure?” she said worriedly. “I mean, I know we discussed it, but—”

  “It seems to me the only option. I am, naturally, open to whatever other possibilities the president may have.”

  Stockwell drummed his fingers on the table. “Ron, you were a hell of a PR man before you became chief of staff. What’s your take on it?”

  “Some people will believe; some won’t,” Ron said. “Some will think it’s a desperate attempt to cover up something else; but there are enough others of a fanciful—dare I say it, faith-oriented—state of mind that they might accept the notion. Either way, at least it allows us to spin the story.”

  “Does it?” asked Stockwell, not sounding convinced. “Or does it just make us look like idiots? Look, we’re shooting in the dark here,” he continued, before Ron could respond. “If we’re seriously talking about going public with this, we have to run this by Mahoney.” When he saw Arthur’s quizzical look, he said by way of explanation, “Tyler Mahoney. My press secretary. He knows everyone in the White House press corps…how they think, how much they’ll swallow. If anyone can give us a reading of what we can expect, it’s him.” He tapped his intercom. “Terry. Get Tyler up here, would you?”

  The door promptly opened and Terry, the president’s aide walked in, looking extremely concerned. “That may not be possible at the moment, Mr. President. There’s a situation that’s just developed that Tyler’s dealing with.”

  “What sort of situation? Something involving us?”

  “No, sir. It’s David Jackson of the Daily News. He was in Tyler’s office, having a real shouting match with Tyler because the press conferences have been closed down, and he just collapsed.”

  “He who? Tyler or Jackson?”

  “Jackson. And there’s blood coming out his ears. They don’t know what it is. The medics are on their way.”

  “They won’t be needed,” Arthur said abruptly, standing. “Percival. Come with me. We’ll settle this right now.”

  Instantly, both Stockwell and Ron were on their feet, Ron instantly realizing what Arthur was intending, and Stockwell a few seconds behind him. “Arthur, we have to discuss this—!”

  “No, Ron. We do not. Gwen, remain here, please. I don’t need you being assaulted by reporters until we have a more controlled situation.” He threw open the door, and there were two Secret Service men just outside. “Stand aside,” he ordered, and they instantly did so. Percival had retrieved the Grail from the desk, and seconds later they were heading down the corridor, Ron bringing up the rear.

  Stockwell sagged back into his chair, rubbing his forehead and trying to control the dull roar that he was hearing. He could have ordered the Secret Service men to try and stop Arthur in his tracks, but the thought of a former president being manhandled was not one he wanted to entertain. To say nothing of the fact that he wasn’t certain Arthur and Percival together couldn’t fight their way past the agents, which was even less desirable.

  “God help me,” he muttered.

  “God help us all,” echoed Gwen, choosing not to dwell on the notion that if God did show up to help, He probably wouldn’t be able to get past White House security.

  REPORTERS BEING THE type of creatures that they were, they were flocking from throughout the building upon hearing that Jackson had collapsed. There were so many trying to crowd into Tyler Mahoney’s office that Tyler—an exhausted man in his thirties who was convinced his hairline had receded two inches since taking this job—was moved to shout at them, “Jesus, people, you’re like sharks at a feeding frenzy! Give the man some room!”

  Not that Jackson looked like he needed it. Seeing him lying helpless upon Mahoney’s floor was shocking in and of itself, because he was a young man with thick black hair that was now matted with blood. His eyes, usually so eager and focused on whatever story he was working, were staring off into nothingness. Mahoney was crouched next to him, saying softly, “Don’t worry, Dave. It’s going to be fine,” and not having the slightest idea whether or not Jackson heard him. “Where the hell are the damned paramedics! This is the goddamned White House! We should have crash carts coming out our asses!”

  “Stand aside,” came a commanding voice that, although none of them had heard it in over a year, everyone within proximity recognized instantly and obeyed without hesitation.

  Former President Penn strode forward with a large black man behind him who looked to be a personal security guard. The reporters immediately began to shout questions, but the black man turned and leveled a gaze at them of such fearsome intensity that it caused every one of them to lapse into silence. Arthur extended a hand to the black man, who in turn handed him a large, sparkling gold cup. “You,” Arthur said briskly, snapping his fingers and pointing at Tyler. “Your name again?”

  “Tyler Mahoney, Mr. President. It’s an honor.”

  “Yes, it is. That water, there,” and he pointed to a bottle of Poland Spring water that was on the edge of Mahoney’s desk. “Give it here, please.”

  Uncomprehending, Mahoney did so. Arthur promptly upended the bottle and poured its contents into the cup. A few droplets splashed out of it and landed in the pot of a dying plant that Mahoney had on his desk.

  “The paramedics are here!” someone shouted from behind.

  “Thank them for their efforts,” said Penn, who by that point had knelt next to Jackson and was pouring the contents of the cup between his slack lips. Jackson continued to look at nothing with his unfocused eyes.

  “Coming through!” came the shout of the paramedics, and that was the exact moment that David Jackson suddenly sat upright, gasping for breath.

  It was so abrupt that everyone watching jumped back, except for a TV cameraman who had filmed the entire thing.

  “You’ll be quite all right now,” Arthur assured him.

  “What…happened?” Jackson gasped. “I was…I don’t remember, what…?” Then he focused on Arthur for the first time, and his eyes widened. “You’re the former president!”

  “That,” Arthur said, “is only the beginning of the story.”

  “Oh my God. Is everyone else seeing this?” It was the cameraman who had spoken, and he’d shifted his focus to the plant on Mahoney’s desk…which had suddenly gone from being nearly dead to blooming and in full health in seconds.

  “It’s a trick!”

  “Has to be!”

  “Couldn’t be—!”

  Questions and words were flying all over as the bewildered paramedics stood there and wondered why in the world they had been summoned.

  Then Arthur raised his hand for silence and immediately the crowd hushed. “It is no trick,” Arthur said with calm solemnity. “Come. We shall go to the pressroom. I shall talk. You will listen. And then…we’ll see what we shall see.”

  CHAPTRE

  THE SIXTH

  MERLIN’S APARTMENT WAS nothing fancy, and that was by his choice. In his lifetime, he had resided in everything from castles to the White House, and had never felt completely at home in any of them. Something deeply rooted within him despised the entire notion of such ostentation.

  So the place that he had chosen to dwell was a third-floor walk-up in the seedier section of downtown Hollywood. Whereas others would certainly have found the location less than desirable, there was a certain rattiness to it that Merlin found quite appealing. If nothing else, he didn’t have to worry about nosy neighbors inquiring as to the whereabouts of his parents. There were children in the area roughly his age and even younger who were more or less left to fend for themselves, thanks to their parents being off and involved with prostitution, drugs, and—most repulsive of
all—auditions. As a result, Merlin’s fending for himself wasn’t about to raise any eyebrows.

  He trudged up the stairs, feeling more tired than usual. He had to think that the centuries were beginning to wear on him, the legs of his eight-year-old frame bending under the weight of millennia of emotional baggage. Passing other residents of the building, he greeted them with the most perfunctory of nods, barely acknowledging their existence, before he finally got to his door. He snapped his fingers, and the inner locks unlatched. The locks were there to deal with the more mundane intruders who might endeavor to gain entrance; he’d erected mystic wards to stave off anyone who might be more problematic than a run-of-the-mill burglar.

  The door swung open before him, and he strode in. It was a studio apartment, cloaked in shadow, which was how he liked it. He was certainly no vampire, but the daylight held little attraction for him. He was built for residing in darkness.

  He put together an indifferent dinner of warmed-up pizza, having ordered a pie three days ago and parceled out a couple slices each night since then. It was economical, which wasn’t all that much of a consideration to Merlin since he could literally pull money out of the air. Lately, though, as his surroundings indicated, he simply hadn’t cared that much about money, or sustenance, or his environment…or anything.

  Merlin did, however, at least give a damn about personal hygiene. After eating the pizza and wiping the crumbs from his mouth with an accommodating shirtsleeve, he walked into the bathroom and started the water running. The bathtub was the one thing in the entire apartment that he found pleasing; it was large and heavy, with big claw feet that raised it a few inches above the floor. It had class and style and personality…more so, Merlin felt, than some persons he knew.

  A television sat in one corner of the apartment. It had been there when Merlin first moved in. He’d put it on once or twice, but was so filled with indifference over everything he saw on the screen that he hadn’t bothered with it since.