by Sahara Foley
Burned, drowned, or stoned. I witnessed some of that in Viet Nam, but the burning there was napalm, and quick. There'd been enough stoning going on too, but it had nothing to do with rocks.
Ruth opens the trunk, and I take out our bags, following her to the front entrance. We step into a large room out of the Dark Ages, except the new fluorescent light fixtures. The floor and walls are old, worn wood. Along one wall is the biggest fireplace I've ever seen, seven-foot-high and nine-foot wide. You could roast a whole cow or pig in there. Over farther into the room is a long, wooden bar, serving as a counter, with an oversized coffee urn and two hot-plates with pots of water on them. The whole rooms filled with old, wooden tables and benches, not one chair. Mounted on the walls are ancient weapons, and some armor: maces, quarterstaffs, broadswords, shields, battleaxes, daggers, lances, helms, coat of plates, chain mail, and gauntlets. Neat, really, if you don't think about the history of the place.
When I first met Ruth, I thought I'd read her mind fairly well, but the tragedies of her life were in the foremost of her conscious mind, so most of what she'd learned over the years, and her special interests, had been shaded out. Now I wish I'd scanned her more deeply, then I could've found elsewhere to stay. But no, that's not true. I do want to be here. No … not here, but somewhere close by.
Damn, why can I read everyone else's fucking mind but mine? I can feel something nagging at me, but can't figure out what it is.
As we're looking around in awe, a short and very stout woman trundles from the back, behind the counter. She's wiping her hands on a sky-blue apron and with her, drifts the smell of fried food.
“Lady and Gent, I'm Mary Moynin, and I'll be pleased to help ye.” She gives a half curtsy and half toothless smile.
“Mrs. Moynin, we need a room, please, for one night.” I flash a charming smile while giving her a slight mental nudge. “We're on our honeymoon, ma'am.”
She glances at Ruth, whose face is running a bright red while fingering her necklace, then she smiles again. “Oh, sir, ye'll have the best room we got, and the lamb chops are on the house for ye tonight.” She curtsies again.
Did I really hear her say ye instead of you? Or am I too wrapped up in the stories from outside and the ambience of this place? Oh well, we're here now, might as well enjoy our stay.
Opening a book on the counter with large, yellowed pages that looks older than the building, she says, “I'll be apologizin' for no one to carry yer bags. Me old man is gone fishin' today, and I'm just not the type for heavy liftin'.”
I sign the book as Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Merlin. “Don't blame you, ma'am, I don't care for it myself. See? We packed light.” I nod towards our small suitcases, giving her a tiny mental push. She actually blushes, thoughts of her own honeymoon skittering through her mind.
“Oy, sir, won't need much for nightwear.” Her face turns a deeper red.
As Mrs. Moynin reads over the register, with tightly, pressed lips Ruth gives me a small kick with her sandaled foot. Not hard, just enough. The pink flush leaves Mrs. Moynin's face. “Uh, sir, would ye have any relations from around these parts?”
I look at Ruth, who shakes her head NO. “No, ma'am, I'm recently from America, although my beautiful wife is from London.”
Whatever's bothering Mrs. Moynin has to be strong to overcome the mental nudges I gave her. But she seems satisfied for now, and wiping her hands again, waves towards the stairs. On the second floor, the place looks even older, if that's possible. She indicates a door and pushes it open. We follow her into a large room that's mostly taken up by a humongous bed.
“The bed has been here fer over two hundret years, but it's the most comfortable one in the village. Built fer the man who used to own this place, and he was a big man.”
Now that's an understatement. The bed is a good seven feet long, and has to be almost as wide.
Ruth stares transfixed. “God, you could get lost in that thing.”
The old lady stares right at Ruth, replying, “Daren't think so tonight, Lady.”
Hey, hey, now that's a blush. Ripe tomatoes have nothing on this girl.
Mrs. Moynin shows us the bathroom, with a new shower, and opens the window a few inches. “If'n I ain't pryin', what manner of work is ye in, sir?”
I answer, “You're not prying, ma'am. I'm a magician; at least, I was one in the States.”
All the color that had returned leaves, and she slaps her hand over her mouth. As she backs from the door, she says, “Dinner is at seven, sir.” She quickly shuts the door as Ruth sighs.
“Now what did I do?” I ask a bit cranky.
Ruth sits on the bed, bouncing a few times, testing the firmness. “Don't you see the connection? I told you how superstitious these people are, and the history. Along comes a magician named of all things, Arthur Merlin.”
I throw my bag on the bed, irritated. “Ruth, are you saying they might think I'm connected to the old Merlin?”
“No, but it seems at least one old lady is giving it some thought.” She stands and strolls into the bathroom.
With nothing else to do, I explore the room. Aside from the gigantic bed, there isn't much else. Of course, there isn't any more space. Old carvings mark the dark, brown ceiling beams, and even the bed posts. Runes. The bed has white, clean, cotton sheets and is accented by a very old, gold, silk canopy. There's also an ancient radio, but no TV.
Ruth wanders out of the bathroom as my watch shows 6:30 p.m. “If we're going to dinner, we have to get ready,” she says as she slips her sandals back on.
My stomach grumbles as I go into the bathroom and wash up. When I come out, she's retouching her makeup, and at ten to seven we start climbing down the stairs.
Ruth is holding and patting my arm as we climb down the steps. “Arthur, try not to do anything to upset the townspeople, or frighten them, okay? I mean, we're on holiday, and I don't want anything to ruin it.”
What else can I do? I pat her back.
Chapter Ten
Wandering into the dining area arm-in-arm, I notice several men sitting in front of a big radio, and as luck would have it, the radio sends out a big blast of pure static. The men turn towards us, giving us hard stares.
We seat ourselves at a table by a wall, then Mrs. Moynin hustles out with a platter full of chops, while a serving girl brings us two mugs of ale. Both scamper off so fast we don't have a chance to thank them. The radio starts working again, and most of the men turn back around. But a few of them don't. They keep glaring with distrust at us as we eat. Before we're finished with our dinner, more patrons have made their way inside the pub, mostly big, rough-looking men, but a few women too.
On our second mug of bitter ale, Ruth tells me, “We're in what is called the Common Room, also known as the Great Room. It's where the people of the village gather in the evenings, as they have for centuries. Even today, in the age of the telly, the villagers still come here. They talk, drink, argue, play darts, sing, dance, play cards, and tell stories. The tradition hasn't changed much since the days of King Arthur and Merlin.”
And witch burnings, I think. Some of these men look the type. What if witches were here today?
After 8:00 p.m., an old guy starts playing an accordion, while a group in a corner is having the loudest dart game on record. Over in the other corner by the fireplace, are two men either having an arm wrestling match, or needed an excuse to hold hands in public. Neither of their hands are moving or arms showing any evidence of straining.
Then, there's this big bozo, sitting at the table next to us, who keeps staring. I smell him from where I sit, my eyes stinging. He looks as big as a tree, with wide shoulders and hairy, thick, long arms. His clothes could've been from any age in history, but they smell like it must've been the Cretaceous Period. The Neanderthal smells like he's been collecting dinosaur shit all day with his bare hands, and has stains to prove it.
Ruth continues telling me the history of the area, about a lake sixty miles from here, where the sword of K
ing Arthur was allegedly thrown in. And about a thousand other facts I'm not interested in enough to pretend like asking questions. She keeps going over the stories about the sword a lot. How many books did I see in her library about King Arthur, Merlin, and the sword? At least eleven books on Excalibur alone! The kid must be fascinated by the legends. Well, there are worse things to get hung-up on. Take Godzilla over there. He has an expression that faintly reminds me of Reshan, but a little dimmer.
Since I've gained my abilities, there've been times when I wanted to read someone's mind, but a tiny voice would pipe up and yell NO at me. I always listen to that voice, but I really want to learn what King Kong finds so damn interesting about us. He's been glaring at us since we came downstairs, even while we ate, and he's still staring. No, I won't do it. Sometimes, I get sick to my stomach from the feelings I run across in people's minds, and I don't want to be sick tonight.
Ruth's still talking, and I catch a phrase about an expedition she'd been a part of. “Back in the early seventies, seventy-two, I think. I was a graduate student back then. Anyhow, Dr. Tober had a trip organized, and since I was a qualified scuba diver he asked me to go. The truth is, I wanted to go more than he'll ever know. We were going to Lake George, the lake I was just telling you about.”
Oh great, what had she said? I dart a glance from her back to Godzilla.
She takes a big pull on her mug and starts again. “The expedition took place right after school let out. In fact, a week from now will have been the anniversary of the trip. We stayed in tents, women in groups, men in groups. I found those sleeping arrangements very convenient, but some of my female friends didn't.
“Well, along into the second week of our mapping and searching, we still hadn't found a single area of the lake that wasn't already mapped. So, Dr. Tober and Gordy rented a few small boats, and we thought we'd use them to row along the cliffs, where, as I said, you can't get to on foot. The next day, we were setup to work the cliffs. But that night, a clear, moonlit night, some of my friends and a few guys, decided to borrow the boats, after the Doctor and Gordy were asleep, so they could spend time alone on the beaches.” With a dreamy smile, Ruth gently strokes my hand, “I didn't understand why they wanted to go then, the idea of it, I mean. Because of that, I was supposed to be the lookout for them.
“Gordy slept soundly, but Dr. Tober went to sleep late, and always awoke early. My friends decided I would engage Dr. Tober in some form of conversation, in his tent, hoping it would help cover any noises they made. I didn't want to do it, but two of the girls were my best and dearest friends. So, I went. I took along the book you were reading the night when Dobie called, when was that? Oh yes, last night.” She stares into her mug. “Funny, it seems a longer time ago.
“Anyway, you must understand, if Dr. Tober had suspected what was going on, we would all have been expelled, and that would've spelled disaster for many of us. His course was, and still is I might add, one of the most highly regarded in the whole University. For him to expel you meant you were in limbo, where no one would hire you after that. Those types of black marks never go away, ever. But I still agreed, and went to see him.
“If I live to be one hundred, I'll never forget that night,” Ruth says in a hushed tone. “Now, I wish we would've been caught and expelled. It would've been so much easier.”
She rolls her shoulders, sitting taller. “When I entered Dr. Tober's tent, being the man he is, when he let me in, he pinned his tent flaps open. So, at first, I wasn't listening to him, because I was terrified he'd hear my friends as they rowed off in the boats. No one had counted on him opening the tent flaps. In fact, from where I sat, I could see my friends in the moonlight, as they rowed away.
“Yes, saying I was afraid doesn't begin to cover how I felt. Fortunately, he thought I was frightened by the stories he'd told us earlier. He started to tell me facts from his journal. Now, some of this I already told you, but not in this context, so if I repeat myself, please don't get bored. Okay?” She blinks at me with her gorgeous, green eyes.
Already told me what? “Uh, no, kid, you won't bore me. Go ahead.” I wave to get the serving girl's attention and order two more mugs of ale. I think about ordering a drink for Godzilla. Fuck him.
With a mental sigh, I wonder, maybe I should go into Ruth's mind and learn what she's talking about. But if I do, she might notice, and that could ruin what I'm hoping will be a great evening. She's also giving off an emotional aura indicating that whatever happened was very important and traumatic for her. Best to just sit and listen.
Trying to turn her mug to take a drink, Ruth fumbles it around, and I realize she's getting tipsy. After a sip, she begins again. “The time was close to eleven o'clock, and my friends were out of sight of Dr. Tober's tent, so I finally relaxed and listened. He told me of the various sightings on the lake, and how there were even documented episodes of wooden fishing boats coming into dock with deep slashes on their sides, and always on moonlit nights. Even though there hadn't been any boat damages for a while, the locals were still reporting sightings.”
Sightings? What the hell is she talking about? What did I miss?
Ruth holds her mug in a white-knuckled grip, eyes lowered. She takes a few deep breaths. Something's bothering her and it isn't the ale.
I lightly touch her hand, not patting. “Hey, if telling your story is bothering you, save it for another time. I'll still be around.”
But what I thought was a sigh before tears, turns out to be a sigh of resignation instead. She looks at me with sadness reflected in her gleaming eyes. “Arthur, I've never told anyone this before. I've gone over the incident in my mind so often, but I've never put it into words before. If I stop now, I'll never be able to tell it again.” She picks up her mug and drinks like a thirsty sailor, or as Godzilla over there did, and was. “Now, listen, because I won't stop. And if you think I'm crazy, well, okay. But I'm not.
“About one-thirty Dr. Tober and I were still talking. He'd gone through all his journals by then, and now we were talking about his own theories. He said he just knew it was there; too much had happened for it not to be. And I'm agreeing with him, my friends forgotten for the moment. Then, he showed me a map St. George drew after the crusades, but before he died. Remember I mentioned that?
“And on this map was sketched what looked like a cavern. But because of some stains on the map, there wasn't a way to determine the cavern's location. Dr. Tober said the stains were the blood of St. George, from the map being inside his mail when he died, and only one servant ever had any knowledge of the map.”
She's interrupted by a loud outburst from the men sitting around the radio. They're arguing over the comments made on a talk show.
Glancing from them back to me, she continues, “Dr. Tober discovered the map in some old records he found at the University, many years before. And every year, on each summer vacation, he'd take a group of students to Lake George to search. Of course, the University didn't know about the map, and he never told them. These yearly expeditions were a graduate course, and since Dr. Tober was head of the course, the University endorsed the trips. He was at the Institute by then as well, but not full-time like now.” With a lopsided grin, Ruth excuses herself and heads for the ladies room.
Godzilla watches her for a few stumbling steps, then turns his attention back to me. His stare isn't a challenge, but it's not friendly either. I want to read his mind so badly, but think, if Ruth wants to go on with her story, I should hear it. But, you big ape, when the lady stops, I'm going to have some fun with you.
His face turns a darker color, and I wonder whether I accidentally spoke aloud. His tree-like arms and legs tense, and for a second, I think he's going to get up and attack me. But he doesn't. In fact, for the first time so far tonight, he actually turns away.
A tall, heavy man, with a white apron tied to a large, beer-belly, appears from the back room. He searches over the place, and when his eyes settle on me, he smiles and goes behind the counter, into w
hat has to be the kitchen.
Ruth wobbles back into the dining area from the bathroom, weaving her way through the milling throng. Godzilla never glances up. As Ruth plops down, the man with the apron comes back out and heads for our table with a bottle and two glasses. He bows and sets them on our table.
“Name is Tabby Moynin, owner. Mamma says yer honeymoonin'. This ain't champagne, which we ain't got, but it's the best wine in the village, and the thoughts the same.” With a broad smile, he holds out his hand.
Rising, I give him a firm handshake. “Arthur and Ruth Merlin, sir. Pleased to meet you.”
He shakes our hands, then kisses the back of Ruth's hand with a grace that belies his size. With a mischievous smile, he says, “Always wanted to do that, sir. And this'n here's a lady if'n I've ever set eyes on one.” Well, Ruth is an aristocrat, and she thanks him with a slight nod and a demure, drunken smile.
“Mr. Merlin, excuse me, but Mamma says yer a magician. Now if'n I might be so forward sir, we don't often get no new talent around here. Could I be imposin' on ye folks fer a little demonstration? Nothin' big, mind ye, maybe a little trick or two?”
THAK. That's Ruth kicking the side of my boot. “Mr. Moynin, I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't bring any props with me. I, er, wasn't planning to need any.” I give him a wink.
He glances at Ruth and grins. “Damn, sir, please be fer beggin' me pardon. Of course not, not on a honeymoon.”
“Then, he ain't no damn good, no how,” a thunderous voice booms, drowning the polka song the accordion player's playing.
With hands on hips, Moynin confronts Godzilla. “Barney, shut yer mouth. The gentleman said no.”
“If'n he were worth his salt, won't need no props, no how,” Godzilla booms at me with a sneer. The huge, packed room goes eerily silent, all eyes trained on us.
