F&SF July/August 2011

by Fantasy; Science Fiction

  "Her Majesty was here and a certain knight. I think we both know which one; and it was just those two all alone. They danced a stately dance in their... what do the heathen Turks call them, pajamas? So taken with each other were they that they never not an unusual number of shouldre information—iced anyone watching.

  "Now, I understand that the knight in question is human and that we all have failings; though I believe you rather famously do not, Percival. I understand that he is the greatest knight of us all. And Guinevere is our King's lady and deserving of our devotion for his sake. Yes, I do bear those things in mind. And no, I don't believe I'm mistaken. What I saw was what I saw.

  "And I don't think I am spreading sordid gossip. I'm sorry, sir knight, that you have taken it that way. Yes, I am amazed that I'm here and in this company also. I'm surprised that I didn't awaken amidst fiery torments. Surprised that hasn't happened with many of us, in truth.

  "Except possibly for Galahad and the King himself, you're the one I'm least amazed to find here. And I regret that anything I said disturbed you as much as it obviously has."

  And with that, off goes Percival in that nightshirt with his coat of arms on front and back. It is my hope that he will remember this through any number of sleeps and that it will prey on him greatly. Since I can't think of any reason for finding myself in this exalted company I have decided I've been put here to be myself and spread unease. Apparently honor is not completely dead inside me, though, since I have a bit of regret at offending even so sanctimonious a prig.

  I see a score of faces, men and women, pink English, dark Moor, Mongol and ones I do not know. You float about me as if listening to a minstrel in a great hall; seem to lean forward like the crowd at a jousting tournament.

  I believe it interests you when I talk to others as I did just now. When I repeat another knight's words you nod, which is why I do it. You congregate when those conversations happen.

  Ah, who do I see heading this way!

  "Sir Bors! Yes, Percival had to hurry off as you saw. Said he needed to say his prayers. Of course I remember you, dear sir, and no, it's not because you're a bore. Your name stands out, as do you.

  "My name? It blends in with all the other names at the bottom of the list. In the great days in the castle at Camelot I was down there with Sir Petipace and Sir Plenorius and the rest. It's said all are equal at a Round Table. That's a pleasant myth.

  "I was just about to pop into the pantry, see if there's something to sooth my nerves. It's strange to complain when we sleep away the centuries but I couldn't stay in bed.

  "You also? Were you bothered by dreams about dragons? I often am. My dreams, though, are not about those fierce beasts one used to fight that breathed fire and required a pure heart to defeat.

  "In the old days, I used to awaken out of dreams where one of those was bearing down on me and I would suddenly realize that my heart was not pure at all.

  "But no, I dream of those little creatures that run around under the bed. They're the ones my nurse used to call Night Dragons when I was small. You nod so I guess yours did the same. Remember as a boy being told they'd find you, nip your feet, and bite your toes off if you got out of bed at night?

  "I do recall a knight, Sir Lambegus I believe, one of the Round Table but down at my end. It seems he got up at an untimely hour and the Night Dragons took him. Had him by the ankles and whisked him right under the bed. Witnesses heard that little chuckling sound they make. Later when they gingerly pulled up the spread there was nothing under the bed but a button or two from his clothes and one index finger.

  "Enough to make a man's blood run cold, I agree. Ah, here we are. Let me lead you through these kitchens with their great, cold fireplaces and rusted ox spits. Through this door is an amazing place that changes each time I visit.

  "Some years ago in here a chest full of ice kept food preserved. Now we have these white closets with large doors and when you open them the cold billows out like a mob of snow crones is holding convocation inside.

  "Ah, cocoa bubbling away on the stove! wondered what acc determinor There's nothing like hot chocolate for putting you back to sleep. Care to join me? Pull up a stool.

  "It was in this very pantry that I saw the Lady Lynette—you know, the one who came to the court of Camelot to beg the King to help her sister recover her realm. She was a great favorite of everyone but she and I were quite close those many years ago.

  "When I saw her here she sat right where you are now in a diaphanous kind of night clothing, holding a tiny cup in her hands and singing a passing melodious roundelay to herself.

  "I had been looking for ale—the old kind that you chewed as you drank. There was none to be had. The ones who maintain this pantry don't go in for the old ways. But I forgot that when I saw her. It was like a thousand years or whatever it was hadn't passed and we were back in that time when many men courted her and I was one of several who had her.

  "She must have felt it, too. She arose as I approached. And then with few words and fewer gestures we were on the table making such a go of it. And when it was over, she arose and wrapped a silken cloak around herself and left me. And it was as if I was still asleep and in a dream. That was many sleeps and awakenings ago and I haven't seen her since.

  "It was one of those old wooden tables, softened by centuries of use. These new ones are hard as marble and I can't imagine rutting on—

  "Oh, I'm sorry, sir knight. You were one of those who worshipped her in a pure manner? To you she was a fountain of innocence and hope?

  "Well, my compliments. You're a better knight and a better man than I or any of the others who had her. Gawain was one of those, and Bedivere, among many. You think I'm defiling her name? And demand satisfaction? Well, you shall have it, sir. Send your squire around to see mine and it shall be arranged. Next time we're both awake."

  Which I can assure him will not be soon. It hardly needs to be said that a man who stamps off without finishing hot chocolate as rich as this must be upset indeed. He will stew on this before falling back into slumber. And that is my role as I've come to understand it—to trouble the sleep of King Arthur's knights.

  At first I thought you faces were heavenly visions. Later I thought you might be from Satan. Now I'm not sure you don't follow another master entirely. The miraculous pantry is, I think, your work.

  I don't know for certain that I'm not, in fact, damned and in Hell. But even if I am it is not thus far unpleasant and I'll make the most of it as I have always tried to do with everything.

  "Is that you, Sir Caradoc, staring at me? My name? Well, why should you have to remember other peoples' names for them, I always say. It's enough that you can remember your own.

  "Morgravain? Yes, I believe you're right. That is my name. There's something else you're trying to remember—something about me? Well, there is that poem:

  I had a little nut tree

  Nothing would it bear

  But a silver nutmeg

  And a golden pear

  The King of Spain's daughter

  Came to visit me

  All for the sake

  Of my little nut tree

  "No, sir, I am NOT rattling on to try and put you off your train of thought and stop you remembering something about me. The mead you've been drinking will do that well enough.

  "The poem is true. The tree had been in the family for generations. It was magic, though not of my doing. Sir Lambegus my cousin, whom you might remember, inherited it. But he died tragically, slain by the Night Dragons, and it came to me.

  "It's true that the King of Spain's daughter came across the sea to visit and was fascinated by the nutmeg and the pear and all. That's sometimes what people get reminded of when....

  "Sir, I am NOT trying to drive all thoughts from your head with idle chatter. I do but try to help you remember. At our age w shouldre information—e need all the help we can get.

  "You recall me as a great traitor who fought at Mordred's side at Camlann, that last
battle where he and so many others died and Arthur our King was badly wounded? You slew me with your own hand as I tried to escape, you say? There, sir, your memory is at fault—as can be said of so many of us after a certain point in our lives.

  "You're mistaken, sir, if you think I fought against my king and companions. The mead has gotten to you and I see your eyes closing. I believe you need to return to your slumbers and that when you awaken you'll remember differently."

  And there he goes, staggering down the hallway. So many of you silent, floating faces are watching me now! I wonder if Caradoc will remember me again. In fact, I never owned a nut tree, magic or otherwise. But there is another verse to that song and it describes me I think:

  I skipped over water

  I danced over sea

  And all the birds in the air

  Couldn't catch me.

  My favorite time as a lad was when I was Lord of Misrule, a page boy set upon the throne with the scullery maid beside him in the best bed and the Lord and Lady washing plates in the kitchen. It was a surprise the first time I awoke and found myself here and in this company but it felt familiar and I knew what to do.

  Caradoc is right. I fought on Mordred's side at that last great battle. Everything appeared to be going his way politically. Many others joined Mordred, though I haven't encountered any of them here. If I'd felt that supporting him was an act of courage, I wouldn't have done it.

  Certain honorable knights, like Percival, died well before the battle of Camlann. Others, French knights like Bors, weren't there. But Caradoc not only was there, he was the one who slew me with an un-knightly blow to my back as I sought to remove myself from the fight. Even spending my courage as thriftily as I've done, I had very little left by then.

  So why am I here? I thought at first that Morgana and her sorceress sisters had mistakenly gathered me up with all the fallen heroes and transported me to this place to await Arthur's awakening.

  Now I think that it is you floating heads or your masters who brought me here. That you know me for what I am and that my presence here amuses you.

  Lately I don't sleep for more than a few hours at a stretch and wander the halls the rest of the time spreading a certain amount of doubt and jealousy. I'm the fly in the ointment, the dead dog in the well, the sign that any system run by humans will have flaws.

  The King is stirring, I can sense that. I go through the Great Hall, up the flight of stone stairs to the Royal Chamber. More faces than I can count, more really than I can conceive of, float around me now.

  When I enter the chamber still more faces, clouds of them, fill the air. You give no sign of concern about such dire events as might have caused the King to rise and return. In fact, you watch Arthur with expressions of interest like people observing a well-matched game of chess, a round of draughts played for moderately high stakes.

  Arthur lies as always alone and unattended. His hands and legs move, his eyes open. The first thing he sees is me.

  The King does not know fear even when awakening in these strange surroundings. But he does show surprise at the sight of me. I drop to one knee.

  "My liege," I say. He looks puzzled at first. "No need for you to remember my name, sire. I am Sir Morgravain."

  He nods his head and remembers. His expression says that he recognizes the fly in the ointment. But I will be the first to speak to His Majesty and I will plant my ideas before anyone else can.

  You faces watch all this with fascination. I don't know if this is a great event or a great entertainment. But if, as I how things are goingooom determinor believe, it's a dash of mischief you want, then I am your own true knight.

  Someone Like You

  By Michael Alexander | 4976 words

  Mike Alexander's previous stories include "Advances in Modern Chemotherapy" and "Ware of the Worlds." Now he brings us a twisty tale of time and fate (not to mention the NFL Championship game).

  I STALKED THE WORLD lines, looking for the man who killed me. I knew who, but I needed to know why.

  26 December 1964

  Tomorrow the Browns will play the Colts for the NFL championship down at old Cleveland Municipal Stadium. They will win 27-3, Baltimore's only score a field goal in the last minute. I think that will be the score, anyway.

  There was a nasty north wind whipping off the lake and I could smell snow as I walked down Superior Avenue to the main branch of the public library. Inside, it was the way I remembered it; high-ceilinged, lots of polished stone. I inquired at the main desk and headed past the ranks of card catalog files for the periodicals room.

  11 April 1974

  Mom and I sat on a lumpy bed in the shelter, a shared blanket wrapped around us. I could feel the past in the old, broken-down mattress. Mom bent down and smelled my head. "You need a shower, kiddo."

  "I don't like the shower. It's dirty and there's a creepy man who sits there and says hello, little girl."

  "I'll take care of that. "

  I snuggled closer. "Tell me about my Dad again," I said. "The real one."

  Mom stared ahead for a full minute. She fumbled under the blanket and brought out her purse, opening it to take out her wallet and a flattened pack of Old Golds. There was an unbroken cigarette inside and Mom hung it on her lower lip. She dug out her Zippo, flipping it open and scratching the wheel against the flint until the wick caught. It was bad for her health but it was good for other things and I kept quiet. She touched the yellow flame to the tobacco; a deep drag, held for a moment, a partial exhalation. Then she pursed her lips and blew a ring of smoke, followed by another. I smiled, remembering how she would make me laugh and clap with the same trick when I was younger. Another drag and smoke trickled from her nostrils as she opened her wallet and showed me yet again a photograph of her first husband.

  "He was ordinary," she said, just as she had said so many times before, the first line in her litany of remembrance. "No one special." The picture was of a man in his middle thirties; taller than average, slightly round shouldered but big-boned, a little thick around the middle, a little thin on top. He was smiling into a bright sun, squinting through horn-rimmed glasses, holding the handle of an old reel-type lawn mower. His face was fleshy and already showed the beginnings of jowls. "We went bowling on Thursdays down at Euclid Lanes. He had a two hundred average and a mean hook. When it was working he would hit the one-three pocket like a night train, and those pins would mix like he'd thrown a bomb. He always complained they used too much oil on the lanes."

  "Tell me something new, please," I asked her.

  "I do repeat myself, don't I? Something new? He liked to put your brother on his shoulders and let him pretend he was driving by pulling on his ears. When your brother yelled 'Go faster!' he would make noises like gears changing and run until his face was all red." Inhale, hold, exhale. "We played pinochle with the neighbors every month. He would pick up his cards and say 'Who dealt this mess?' It was the family slogan whenever something didn't go right. But he had hands like a blacksmith and when he knocked you'd think he would dent the wood."

  I nodded. "Some more?" I asked, memorizing.

  She inhaled again. "There was the time we were driving down to visit my cousins in North C wondered what acy b defenders soon asarolina and stopped for lunch at a diner. We all ordered hamburgers. When the waitress brought them out and we were getting ready to dig in, your brother remembered and said it was Friday and we weren't supposed to eat meat. So he made the Sign of the Cross over the table and said ' Dominus vobiscum, fish ' and we all laughed except him and ate up."

  "Why didn't he laugh?" I asked.

  "He laughed inside. You could tell, his eyes sort of twinkled. That was just his way. We were hoping for another child, someday."

  "Me," I said.

  She tightened her arm around my shoulder. "Someone like you, honey. Someone like you."

  I put my head against her chest and was quiet for a bit, listening to the odd heartbeat signaling the arrhythmia that would eventually kill her.r />
  "Me," I said again.

  "Oh, I wish, I wish. But you can't change the past, Cuddlekins. You are who you are and that's enough for me."

  26 December 1964

  The article was on page four of the Plain Dealer. Witnesses said the assailant was first noticed standing at one of the workers' exits at 10610 Quincy. When the victim stepped outside, the assailant walked over to him. They appeared to exchange a few words as though they knew each other. Then the assailant raised a gun and shot the victim in the chest. Coworkers ran toward the assailant, who stepped around the corner of the building, but by the time they reached it, the man had disappeared. Police still had no motive or suspects.

  11 April 1974

  "Why'd you get married again, Mom?" I asked.

  She flicked ash on the floor and inhaled more smoke. "Because I was an idiot. No, because I was lonely. Both. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, kiddo. We were supposed to have more kids and send them to school and take a vacation or two. And get old and sit together on the picnic chairs in the back yard and watch the squirrels and feed the blue jays peanuts. He loved to just sit there feeding the jays peanuts, and I loved watching him." She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and turned her head to cough, ashes falling from the cigarette onto the blanket. "Instead he was killed and your brother took it hard and when I married your father neither one could take it and your brother went to live with my sister, finally."

  "Did he hit my brother, too?" I asked.

  "Yes, he did. You were too young to remember. That was one reason your brother went away."

  "But he hardly ever hit me," I said.

  Mom's cheek twitched. "Only when he was drunk. He always gave you a piece of candy or something when he sobered back up." She stared off at things I couldn't see. "The priest said I had to... Jesus, Hon, I don't even remember, offer it up or something." She took another pull on the butt, the tip glowing.