"Oh, Lord!" he says. "Let him find his way homel"
Outside, the fog begins to roll and break, and the wind makes a small rustling noise as it passes. The long shadow of the man, lost in his love and wonder, moves like a blade through the city and November and the night.
THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT
I wrote this one for The Saturday Evening Post and they asked me to cut it to 4500 words. It is 9000 words in length. Crossing out every other word made it sound funny, so I didn't.
The three muggers who stopped him that October night in San Francisco did not anticipate much resistance from the old man, despite his size. He was well-dressed, and that was sufficient.
The first approached him with his hand extended. The other two hung back a few paces.
"Just give me your wallet and your watch," the mugger said. "You'll save yourself a lot of trouble."
The old man's grip shifted on his walking stick. His shoulders straightened. His shock of white hair tossed aa he turned his head to regard the other.
"Why don't you come and take them?"
The mugger began another step but he never completed it. The stick was almost invisible in the speed of its swinging. It struck him on the left temple and he fell.Without pausing, the old man caught the stick by its middle with his left hand, advanced and drove it into the belly of the next nearest man. Then, with an upward hook as the man doubled, he caught him in the softness beneath the jaw, behind the chin, with its point. As the man fell, he clubbed him with its butt on the back of the neck.
The third man had reached out and caught the old man's upper arm by then. Dropping the stick, the old man seized the mugger's shirtfront with his left hand, his belt with his right, raised him from the ground until he held him at arm's length above his-head and slammed him against the side of the building to his right, releasing him as he did so.
He adjusted his apparel, ran a hand through his hair and retrieved his walking stick. For a moment he regarded the three fallen forms, then shrugged and continued on his way.
There were sounds of traffic from somewhere off to his left. He turned right at the next comer. The moon appeared above tall buildings as he walked. The smell of the ocean was on the air. It had rained earlier and the pavement still shone beneath streetlamps. He moved slowly, pausing occasionally to examine the contents of darkened shop windows.
After perhaps ten minutes, he came upon a side street showing more activity than any of the others he had passed. There was a drugstore, still open, on the comer, a diner farther up the block, and several well-lighted storefronts. A number of people were walking along the far side of the street. A boy coasted by on a bicycle. He turned there, his pale eyes regarding everything he passed.
Halfway up the block, he came to a dirty window on which was painted the word READINGS. Beneath it were displayed the outline of a hand and a scattering of playing cards. As he passed the open door, he glanced inside. A brightly garbed woman, her hair bound back in a green kerchief, sat smoking at the rear of the room. She smiled as their eyes met and crooked an index finger, toward herself. He smiled back and turned away, but ...
He looked at her again. What was it? He glanced at his watch.
Turning, he entered the shop and moved to stand be-fore her. She rose. She was small, barely over five feet in height.
"Your eyes," he remarked, "are green. Most gypsies I know have dark eyes."
She shrugged.
"You take what you get in life. Have you a problem?"
"Give me a moment and I'll think of one," he said. "I just came in here because you remind me of someone and it bothers me—I can't think who." "Come into the back," she said, "and sit down. We'll talk."
He nodded and followed her into a small room to the rear. A threadbare oriental rug covered the floor near the small table at which they seated themselves. Zodiacal prints and faded psychedelic posters of a semireligious nature covered the walls, A crystal ball stood on a small stand in the far comer beside a vase of cut flowers. A dark, long-haired cat slept on a sofa to the right of it. A door to another room stood slightly ajar beyond the sofa. The only illumination came from a cheap lamp on the table before him and from a small candle in a plaster base atop the shawl-covered coffee table.
He leaned forward and studied her face, then shook his head and leaned back.
She flicked an ash onto the floor.
"Your problem?" she suggested.
He sighed.
"Oh, I don't really have a problem anyone can help me with. Look, I think I made a mistake coming in here. I'll pay you for your trouble, though, just as if you'd given me a reading. How much is it?"
He began to reach for his wallet, but she raised her - hand.
"Is it that you do not believe in such things?" she asked, her eyes scrutinizing his face.
"No, quite the contrary," he replied. "I am willing to believe in magic, divination and all manner of spells and sendings, angelic and demonic. But—"
"But not from someone in a dump like this?"
He smiled.
"No offense," he said.
A whistling sound filled the air. It seemed to come from the next room back."That's all right," she said, "but my water is boiling. I'd forgotten it was on. Have some tea with me? I do wash the cups. No charge. Things are slow."
"All right."
She rose and departed.
He glanced at the door to the front but eased himself back into his chair, resting his large, blue-veined bands on its padded arms. He sniffed then, nostrils fiaring, and cocked his head as at some half-familiar aroma.
After a time, she returned with a tray, set it on the coffee table. The cat stirred, raised her head, blinked at it, stretched, closed her eyes again.
"Cream and sugar?"
"Please. One lump."
She placed two cups on the table before him.
'Take either one," she said.
He smiled and drew the one on his left toward him. She placed an ashtray in the middle of the table and returned to her own seat, moving the other cup to her place.
"That wasn't necessary," he said, placing his hands on the table.
She shrugged.
"You don't know me. Why should you trust me? Probably got a lot of money on you."
He looked at her face again. She bad apparently removed some of the heavier makeup while in the back. room. The jawline, the brow ... He looked away. He took a sip of tea.
"Good tea. Not instant," be said. "Thanks." "So you believe in all sorts of magic,'* she asked, sipping her own. "Some," he said. "Any special reason why?** "Some of it works." "For example?"
He gestured aimlessly with his left hand. "I've traveled a lot. I've seen some strange things." "And you have no problems?"
He chuckled-
"Still determined to give me a reading? All right. III tell you a little about myself and what I want right now, and you can tell me whether 111 get it. Okay?"
"I'm listening." "I am a buyer for a large gallery in the Bast I amsomething of an authority on ancient work in precious metals. I am in town to attend an auction of such items from the estate of a private collector. I will go to inspect the pieces tomorrow. Naturally, I hope to find something good. What do you think my chances are?"
"Give me your hands."
He extended them, palms upward. She leaned forward and regarded them. She looked back up at him immediately.
"Your wrists have more rascettes than I can counti"
*'Yours seem to have quite a few, also."
She met his eyes for only a moment and returned her attention to his hands. He noted that she had paled beneath what remained of her makeup, and her breathing was now irregular.
"No," she finally said, drawing back, "you are not going to find here what you are looking for."
Her hand trembled slightly as she raised her teacup. He frowned.
"I asked only in jest," he said. "Nothing to get upset about. I doubted I would find what I am really looking for,
anyway."
She shook her head.
*TelI me your name."
"I've lost my accent," he said, "but I'm French. The name is DuLac."
She stared into his eyes and began to blink rapidly.
"No ..." she said. "No."
"I'm afraid so. What's yours?"
"Madam LeFay, she said. "I just repainted that sign. It's still drying."
He began to laugh, but it froze in his throat
"Now—I know—who—you remind me of... .**
"You reminded me of someone, also. Now I, too, know."
Her eyes brimmed, her mascara ran.
"It couldn't be," he said. "Not here... . Not in a place like this. ..."
"You dear man," she said softly, and she raised his right hand to her lips. She seemed to choke for a moment, then said, "I had thought that I was the last, and yourself buried at Joyous Gard. I never dreamed ..." Then, "This?" gesturing about the room. "Only because it amuses me, helps to pass the time. The waiting—**She stopped. She lowered his hand.
'Tell me about it," she said.
"The waiting?" he said. "For what do you wait?"
"Peace," she said. "I am here by the power of my arts, through all the long years. But you—How did you manage it?"
"I—" He took another drink of tea. He looked about the room. "I do not know how to begin," he said. "I survived the final battles, saw the kingdom sundered, could do nothing—and at last departed England- I wandered, taking service at many courts, and after a time under many names, as I saw that I was not aging—or aging very, very slowly. I was in India, China—I fought in the Crusades. I've been everywhere. I've spoken with magicians and mystics—most of them charlatans, a few with the power, none so great as Merlin—and what had come to be my own belief was confirmed by one of them, a man more than half charlatan, yet ..." He paused and finished his tea. "Are you certain you want to hear all this?" he asked.
"I want to bear it. Let me bring more tea first, though."
She returned with the tea. She lit a cigarette and leaned back.
"Go on."
"I decided that it was—my sin," he said. "with . . , the Queen."
"I don't understand."
"I betrayed my Liege, who was also my friend, in the one thing which must have hurt him most. The love I felt was stronger than loyalty or friendship—and even today, to this day, it still is. I cannot repent, and so I cannot be forgiven. Those were strange and magical times. We lived in a land destined to become myth. Powers walked the realm in those days, forces which are now gone from the earth. How or why, I cannot say. But you know that it is true. I am somehow of a piece with those gone things, and the laws that rule my existence are not normal laws of the natural world. I believe that I cannot die; that it has fallen my lot, as punishment, to wander the world till I have completed the Quest. I believe I will only know rest the day I find the Holy Grail. Giuseppe Balsamo, before he became known as Cagliostro, somehow saw this and said it to me just as I had thought it, though I never said a word of it to him. And so Ihave traveled the world, searching. I go no more as knight, or soldier, but as an appraiser. I have been in nearly every museum on Earth, viewed ail the great private collections. So far, it has eluded me."
"You are getting a little old for battle."
He snorted.
"I have never lost," he stated flatly. "Down ten centuries, I have never lost a personal contest. It is true that I have aged, yet whenever I am threatened all of my former strength returns to me. But, look where I may, fight where I may, it has never served me to discover that which I must find. I feel I am unforgiven and must wander like the Eternal Jew until the end of the world." ^ She lowered her head.
"... And you say I will not find it tomorrow?"
"You will never find it," she said softly.
"You saw that in my hand?"
She shook her head.
"Your story is fascinating and your theory novel," she began, "but Cagliostro was a total charlatan. Something must have betrayed your thoughts, and he made a shrewd guess. But he was wrong. I say that you will never find it, not because you are unworthy or unforgiven. No, never that. A more loyal subject than yourself never drew breath. Don't you know that Arthur forgave you? It was an arranged marriage. The same thing happened constantly elsewhere, as you must know. You gave her something he could not. There was only tenderness there. He understood. The only forgiveness you require is that which has been withheld all these long years—your own. No, it is not a doom that has been laid upon you. It is your own feelings which led you to assume an impossible quest, something tantamount to total unforgiveness. But you have suffered all these centuries upon the wrong trail."
When she raised her eyes, she saw that his were hard, like ice or gemstones. But she met his, gaze and continued: "There is not now, was not then, and probably never was, a Holy Grail."
"I saw it," he said, "that day it passed through the Hall of the Table. We all saw it."
"You thought you saw it," she corrected him. "I hate to shatter an illusion that has withstood all the other tests of time, but I fear I must. The kingdom, as yourecall, was at that time in turmoil. The knights were growing restless and falling away from the fellowship. A year—six months, even—and all would have collapsed, all Arthur had striven so hard to put together. He knew that the longer Camelot stood, the longer its name would endure, the stronger its ideals would become. So he made a decision, a purely political one. Something was needed to hold things together. He called up6n Merlin, already half-mad, yet still shrewd enough to see what was needed and able to provide it. The Quest was born. Merlin's powers created the illusion you saw that day. It was a lie, yes. A glorious lie, though. And it served for years after to bind you all in brotherhood, in the name of justice and love. It entered literature, it promoted nobility and the higher ends of culture. It served its purpose. But it was—never—really—there. You have been chasing a ghost. I am sorry Launcelot, but I have absolutely no reason to lie to you. I know magic when I see it. I saw it then. That is how it happened."
For a long while he was silent Then he laughed.
"You have an answer for everything," he said. "I could almost believe you, if you could but answer me one thing more—Why am I here? For what reason? By what power? How is it I have been preserved for half the Christian era while other men grow old and die in a handful of years? Can you tell me now what Cagliostro could not?"
"Yes," she said, "I believe that I can."
He rose to his feet and began to pace. The cat, alarmed, sprang from the sofa and ran into the back room. He stooped and snatched up his walking stick. He started for the door.
"I suppose it was worth waiting a thousand years to see you afraid," she said.
He halted.
"That is unfair," he replied.
"I know. But now you will come back and sit down," she said.
He was smiling once more as he turned and returned.
^eU me," he said. "How do you see it?"
"Yours was the last enchantment of Merlin, that is how I see it."
"Merlin? Me? Why?" "Gossip had it the old goat took Nimue into the woodsand she had to use one of his own spells on him in selfdefense—a spell which caused him to sleep forever in some lost place. If it was the spell that I believe it was, then at least part of the rumor was incorrect. There was no known counterspell, but the effects of the enchantment would have caused him to sleep not forever but for a millennium or so, and then to awaken. My guess now is that his last conscious act before he dropped off was to lay this enchantment upon you, so that you would be on hand when he returned."
"I suppose it might be possible, but why would he want me or need me?"
"If I were journeying into a strange time, I would want an ally once I reached it. And if I had a choice, I would want it to be the greatest champion of the day."
"Merlin ..." he mused. "I suppose that it could be as you say. Excuse me, but a long life has just been shaken up, from beginning
to end. If this is true ..."
"I am sure that it is."
"If this is true ... A millennium, you say?"
"More or less."
"Well, it is almost that time now."
'I know. I do not believe that our meeting tonight was a matter of chance. You are destined to meet him upon bis awakening, which should be soon. Something has ordained that you meet me first, however, to be warned.**
"Warned? Warned of what?"
"He is mad, Launcelot. Many of us felt a great relief at his passing. If the realm had not been sundered finally by strife it would probably have been broken by his hand, anyway."
"That I find difficult to believe. He was always a strange man—for who can fully understand a sorcerer?— and in his later years he did seem at least partly daft. But he never struck me as evil."
"Nor was he. His was the most dangerous morality of all. He was a misguided idealist. In a more primitive time and place and with a willing tool like Arthur, he was able to create a legend. Today, in an age of monstrous weapons, with the right leader as his catspaw, he could unleash something totally devastating. He would see a wrong and force his man to try righting it. He would' do it in the name of the same high ideal he alwaysserved, but he would not appreciate the results until it was too late. How could he—even if he were sane? He has no conception of modem international relations."
"What is to be done? What is my part in all of this?"
"I believe you should go back, to England, to be present at his awakening, to find out exactly what he wants, to try to reason with him."
"I don't know ... How would I find him?'* '
"You found me. When the time is right, you will be in the proper place. I am certain of that- It was meant to be, probably even a part of his spell. Seek him. But do not trust him."
"I don't know. Morgana." He looked at the wall, unseeing. "I don't know,"
"You have waited this long and you draw back now from finally finding out?"
The Last Defender Of Camelot Page 30
