“Do not be hasty, Joby. There is time to let it turn.”
“That is my answer, Arthur,” Joby insisted. “If need be, that will be my answer tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow after that, until this trial has passed us by.”
For a moment both men were silent, gazes locked. Then Joby recognized the tears in Arthur’s eyes, and looked away lest they be answered in his own.
“There is no other man in Camelot, I think,” Arthur said quietly, “who would have answered so without at least inquiring after his reward.”
Joby snorted, still not trusting himself to face his king. “Arthur, what reward have you to tempt me with that approaches the honor of . . . of your faith in me?”
“Behold my choice,” Arthur whispered to the empty air around them, “and tremble.”
Joby looked up to see who Arthur spoke to, but saw no one else. A shiver ran down his spine, and he was about to ask if they were alone when Arthur said more loudly, “Come, Joby, we must return to Camelot before sunset. The trial is upon us soon enough.”
With one last glance around the clearing, Joby followed Arthur to their horses, fierce pride, swelling affection, and twining dread at war within his breast. He still did not know what task he had agreed to. Longer and more terrible than he could imagine, Arthur had warned. Well, he had no small imagination.
The ride home passed in thoughtful silence. Not until they were just miles from Camelot, trotting through an open riverside stand of alder trees, did Joby speak again.
“How am I to know it, Arthur?”
The king looked at him blankly.
“The test,” Joby said. “What is it? When does it begin? Surely I must know something of it beforehand, mustn’t I?”
“I have told you all I may, Joby, lest I violate the trial’s conditions and forfeit all to my opponent at the start.”
“But . . . how shall I prepare then? How am I even to recognize the enemy?”
Arthur shrugged. “How is evil ever recognized, Joby? What does it look like? How does one oppose it?”
Joby reined his horse to a halt and stared, beginning to comprehend the true difficulty of his position.
“I told you the trial was long,” Arthur said, and wheeled his horse around to go on. “Come, Joby. The sun slows not at all in deference to our troubles.”
Shaking himself from disbelief, Joby spurred his horse and followed.
Neither of them spoke again until they had stopped on the brow of the last hill overlooking the coastal headlands of Camelot. They had beaten sunset by half an hour, and the scene before them was so beautiful that even Joby’s solidifying distress could not prevent him from being moved.
Graceful stands of pine and cypress, weathered and sculpted by salt and storm, stood nearly black against the green-gold fields and the glittering sea beyond. Out past the cliff tops, mammoth stacks of rock thrust out of the water, their heads bent back above the mist, as if gazing at the sky in prayer. The distant boom and sigh of surf was mixed with the musical bark of seals, the strident cry of seabirds, and, from somewhere, the measured tolling of a bell. Out over the water, long lines of pelicans skimmed the troughs between huge swells moving ponderously toward shore. A high whistling cry drew Joby’s gaze up to find hunting osprey hanging nearly motionless above the river mouth, waiting for their dinner to swim past below. The air carried scents of iodine and sea salt, wood smoke and dry wayside herbs, cedar bark, and weathered stone. And rising at the center of it all, the walls and roofs and spires of Camelot.
“Look at it, Joby!” Arthur exclaimed. “Is it not lovely?”
“In truth, it is worth . . . anything to defend, My Lord,” Joby sighed mournfully.
Arthur frowned and turned to look at Joby. “It is always ill advised to fill a bright moment with some future darkness, friend. Your trials, whatever they may be, have not yet begun. Can you not be here now, with me?”
Joby took a deep breath, nodded, then surprised himself by laughing aloud. Arthur was right. Who knew how many more such moments he would be afforded?
“Care to place a wager, My Lord?”
Arthur looked startled.
“I will beat you to that lookout on the river’s mouth by three lengths!” Joby shouted, spurring his horse so that he was well away before half the words were spoken.
“You cheat!” Arthur shouted, prodding his mount after Joby’s. “That bodes well!”
Joby did beat him, and when the two men had finished laughing and impugning each other’s character, they sat their horses quietly in the spreading shadow of a giant old cypress, gazing at the beach below. Well-formed waves stood up and filled with light, like walls of brilliant jade, then tumbled down in creamy gouts of pure white foam, rolling in to spread across the sand before hissing back into the bay.
“You neglected to say what was forfeit if I lost that race,” Arthur observed.
“I neglected to think of anything,” Joby replied.
“You are truly not much suited to the business of reward, my friend. It is wise to look after one’s own interests, I think—at least a little. No one else is likely to.”
“This is all I want. . . . All I’ll ever want,” Joby murmured at last, still gazing at the sun-blazed bay and the dark-cliffed, wood-crowned headlands beyond. “To breathe this air, and gaze at all that lies about us here. There is no fairer prize.”
“Lovely, yes,” Arthur replied. “But is it good?”
“Of course, My Lord,” Joby said, wondering if the question were some trick. “How could this be anything but good?”
Just then, an osprey plunged like thunder into the river mouth, and rose again to flap heavily inland toward its nest, a silver fish hanging in its talons.
“Death just came to some hapless creature there,” Arthur replied. “Life and death go on all around us here. The fragrant wood smoke we smell bespeaks the end of some fair tree even as it warms some cheerful hearth. Are you certain all you see is good?”
“As I am certain of anything, My Lord,” Joby answered. Then understanding dawned. “And you think this evil that I am to confront will be as easily recognized?”
“Nay,” Arthur conceded, “though one may learn to know it as certainly, if not as easily. Still, perhaps it was unkind to conjure such dark clouds just when you had let them clear. See? The sun leans down at last to kiss the water. Let us ride out farther, you and I, and watch their embrace.”
Moments later, they stood together upon the western-most cliff top, gazing out at one small band of fog poised above the farthest horizon. As the sun fell behind it, its edges burned like molten gold, and elusive rays of peach and salmon, powder blue, and palest yellow stretched briefly up into the lavender sky.
As stars began to bloom above twilight’s fire-red, green, and cobalt bands, Arthur broke their long silence. “At the worst of times, friend Joby, I look most keenly for whatever beauty may be near at hand, and drink as deeply as I can. I cannot recommend such drafts highly enough for those who would learn to recognize evil, and remain proof against it. Feed your heart, Joby. I trust your heart more than I trust the wisest head in Camelot. . . . Now come. At the castle they will think us drowned or kidnapped by now. You will have a meal fit to your courage, and a night of peaceful sleep in our finest chambers.”
They had barely entered the castle when Arthur was scolded off to some too long neglected urgency by a flock of long-suffering advisers, leaving Joby to wander on his own until the service of dinner in Arthur’s hall.
“My congratulations, Sir, on such a lovely presentation,” Lucifer fawned as God looked up from Joby’s bed. “Stunning use of landscape! But, lovely as they are, spun glass castles are so easily fractured. Just a little tap is all it takes at times. . . . Goodness!” he enthused, glancing theatrically at the Donald Duck wall clock over Joby’s bed. “Is it my turn? So soon?”
Knowing the old stick would never stoop to take the bait, Lucifer plunged into Joby’s dream without waiting for the Creator to rep
ly.
Joby found himself on a balcony overlooking a moonlit rose garden, distant merriment still audible within the palace behind him. The banquet had been grand . . . he thought . . . well, rather vague actually, but definitely grand . . . he was fairly sure. A breath drawn in appreciation of fragrant yellow roses that climbed the trellis from below became yet another sigh. Each sigh had been longer than the last that night.
“That sounded rather laden with care,” offered a grave voice behind him.
Joby whirled to find a tall figure standing in shadow at the balcony’s far end.
“I . . . I thought I was alone,” Joby stammered, disconcerted. Then, “I beg pardon. That is rude greeting, but I was—”
“Please!” insisted the other, stepping out into the moonlight. “It is I who must apologize, lurking in the shadows so. I was here when you came out, and did not know whether to disturb you or merely keep my peace until you’d gone. Stupid of me really.”
The stranger’s voluminous robes were rich with velvet and gems, his silver-templed mane swept back regally, his brows thick and wise above icy blue eyes so penetrating, even by moonlight, that the strong compulsion to stare into them was quickly at war with an equally uncomfortable urge to look swiftly away.
“I’m at a loss,” Joby said. “You seem familiar, but I cannot summon your name.”
“I am not easily summoned,” the other said, smiling at some private joke with a look so shrewd that Joby knew suddenly who he must be.
“Would you be the king’s adviser, Merlin?”
“Why . . . yes! That’s exactly who I am,” the man said, seeming first surprised, then pleased. “How perceptive of you to guess. Most don’t, you know; by design actually. I am often more useful to the king unrecognized.” Merlin waved the matter away with an ingratiating smile. “Be at ease, Sir Joby. I well understand how preoccupied you must be given the perilous quest you have undertaken. And I must say, I am well pleased with the king’s excellent choice of champions. I have long been an admirer of yours myself.”
Joby’s eyes widened. “You know of my quest?”
Merlin offered a self-deprecating smile. “Who would know, if not the king’s highest adviser?”
“Well, yes. Of course.” Joby blushed. “I . . . I am deeply flattered by your esteem, though I would take even greater comfort in knowing what, precisely, I am such an excellent choice for.”
“Perhaps I can assist you then,” Merlin replied.
“I would be deeply in your debt,” Joby sighed. “But the king has made it plain that I may be told nothing of my ordeal beforehand.”
“Not by himself,” Merlin said, smiling. “That is one of the conditions laid upon him in this matter. But not all are subject to such restrictions. Myself, for instance.”
“You can tell me what this concerns?” Joby blurted out. “It is allowed?”
“I can,” Merlin smiled, “and it is. Ask what you will.”
“Thank God we meet!” Joby crowed.
“Indeed.” Merlin smiled again.
“Well, to begin, with whom must I contend?”
Merlin’s smile vanished. He seemed almost to shrink in upon himself. “You demand the cruelest answer first. Are you steeled to hear it, Sir Joby?”
Joby nodded, though Merlin’s expression sent shivers down his spine.
“Evil itself, Sir Joby,” Merlin whispered, as if afraid to speak the words aloud. “God’s own enemy.”
Joby felt his mouth fall slowly open. “Surely . . . you cannot mean—”
“The devil,” Merlin said more resolutely. “You are sent on your king’s behalf to oppose the devil himself. May God and all his angels go with you.”
“How . . . how can a mere man . . . defeat the devil?” Joby murmured in dismay.
“I cannot say,” Merlin sympathized. “But it must be possible, or Arthur would not have sent you, would he? He loves you deeply . . . does he not?”
No longer trusting his legs, Joby turned to lean against the balustrade. “If I fail . . .,” he said miserably, “all is lost. . . . For Arthur. For Camelot. That is what he said. . . . But how can I hope to succeed?”
“Now, now, Sir Joby!” Merlin protested. “Despair at the very beginning can lead to nothing good! You must not fail, and so you shan’t! Come, walk with me in the garden below, and I will arm you with what advice I may. What say you, brave Sir Joby? Will you not entertain some little portion of the hope both I and Arthur place in you?”
Abashed, Joby gazed down at the flagstones. “You are right, Merlin. I . . . I am deeply ashamed to have wilted so before the first faint breath of battle. I will succeed, for my lord, Arthur, and now for you as well!”
“That’s better!” Merlin laughed. “I should be honored to have any part in the outcome of your trial! Come! Let us away to the garden!”
Merlin took Joby’s arm like an old uncle, already advising as they stepped into the torch-lit corridor.
“Vigilance must be your cornerstone, Sir Joby. The enemy you face will exploit every weakness you expose, leverage any smallest flaw, so you must steel yourself to offer him none! This may seem impossible at first, but those who claim that perfection is unattainable are weak and lazy men who care only to justify their own poor quality. You can attain it, Sir Joby. But there must be nothing you are unprepared to sacrifice. Not even your own heart! Especially your own heart. God’s own Son laid down His very life. You must be prepared to do no less.”
Merlin turned to face Joby at the garden’s entrance. “Sir Joby, believe me when I say that no one wants to see this fight won more earnestly than I do. Nor has anyone greater confidence in you than I have. In you I find nothing but hope for victory.”
“I thank heaven for your candor,” Joby replied. “The truths you speak are grim, but I would rather face any doom fully illuminated than concealed in shadows. You have greatly steadied my resolve, Merlin. If it is the end of my life that I am pledged to, then for Arthur’s sake, so be it.”
Merlin nodded sagely. “If you are steadfast, you will not fail to realize my brightest hopes for you. I feel it, sir! I feel it! Come now,” he smiled, turning toward the garden door, “let us put such sad concerns aside, and revel in the scent of roses while we may.”
“Of course, the trick is knowing precisely where that tap must be administered,” Lucifer chortled, looking up in turn from Joby’s bed.
“Shall we finish?” Gabriel asked flatly.
“Has no one here any sense of humor?” Lucifer protested sadly.
“If our solemn ritual seems a laughing matter to you,” Gabriel said, “it can yet be declared null and void.”
“Heaven forbid,” Lucifer drawled. “By all means, continue.”
“The candidate’s consent having been attained,” said Gabriel unhappily, “will you, Lucifer, submit to this wager and all its conditions as stated in my presence, bound by every word thereof, win or lose?”
“I will.”
“And will You,” Gabriel asked the Creator, “submit to this wager and all its conditions as stated in my presence, bound by every word thereof, win or lose?”
“I will.”
“The wager is sealed,” Gabriel said dolefully, “which none, even God Almighty, may unsay. The contest begins. . . . By right and custom, Lucifer is granted first blow.”
“Done that,” Lucifer sighed, examining his nails. “Why not leave our young hero to enjoy that peaceful night’s rest you promised, Lord? God knows, he’ll need it.”
But when Lucifer looked up, both the Creator and Gabriel were gone already, leaving him feeling snubbed and vindictive. Thinking to take it out on the Creator’s pathetic little champion, Lucifer attempted to rejoin his dream, only to find himself nursing a hellish headache after banging his being against the barriers the Creator had placed to guard Joby’s sleep that night.
“Enjoy whatever pretty dream he’s left you, child.” Lucifer sneered. “It’ll be His last favor for a very long time!”
/> Then Lucifer was gone as well, leaving only the slightest stink of brimstone to dissipate over Joby’s peaceful, softly smiling form.
Sunlight was streaming through Joby’s windows when he woke feeling deliciously rested and intensely excited. He’d really been there! He was sure of it! Everything had been so real! And the way he’d been able to talk! Just like someone from his book! Trying to remember how he’d done that, he found his memories of Camelot already vanishing in the sunlight.
Quick! Quick! Quick! he thought, scrambling from his bed. Write it down!
Yanking open drawers and scattering piles, Joby found a few crinkled sheets of wide-ruled newsprint and the iridescent stub of a Disneyland pencil, then rushed to his desk. But the courtly words were already gone, and the very ideas were fading fast.
“I woud rather fite my enemy in the lite then in the shadoes,” Joby scrawled, recalling the scent of roses.
He waited, pencil poised, face scrunched in fierce concentration, then lunged to write again.
“You must be brave and give up your hart. . . . You must be . . . What? . . . vijilint.” Yes, that was the word. What did it mean? “You must be perfict Sir Joby or the enemy will win!”
But these were all Merlin’s words. What Joby wanted most to capture were Arthur’s. Think, think, think! What had Arthur said?
“What dose evil look like Sir Joby? . . .” Yes! “How do you fite it?” Yes! Yes! What else? Then he remembered, and his face went slack with worry.
“I cannot help you anymore, Sir Joby. If you fale we all do.”
I have to fight the devil, Joby thought, all by myself. He stared at the sheet of paper before him. Was this all he had left? . . . No. The words had fled. Perhaps he’d only imagined talking like that. But he still remembered riding with Arthur through the fields and hills. He remembered the solemn grove, and the birdsong spiraling up into echoes, the swaying trees, and the laughter and love in Arthur’s eyes. He remembered Camelot on the sea, the seal song and the bird cries, the waves of burning jade, and the sunset—especially the sunset. Arthur had placed the fate of all this in Joby’s hands. The words were gone, but Joby knew the core. The rest he would figure out somehow. Hadn’t Arthur said there would be clues?
The Book of Joby Page 4
