‘And when we have a, a democracy, every man says who shall be king?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘And what do the women do?’
I had to think about that. ‘Oh, they should have the vote, too,’ I said. ‘Eventually. It’ll take some time. I don’t think Albion is ready for female suffrage.’
‘It has female sufferage already,’ she said, with unusual bitterness.
‘Suffrage. It means the right to vote.’
I patted her hand.
‘Anyway,’ I told her, ‘you can’t start with a democracy. You have to work up through stuff like tyranny and monarchy first. That way people are so relieved when they get to democracy that they hang on to it.’
‘People used to do what the king told them,’ she said, carefully measuring bread and milk into the shallow bowls. ‘The high king, I mean. Everyone did what the high king said. Even the lesser kings.’
I’d heard about this high king. In his time, apparently, the land had flowed with so much milk and honey people must have needed waders to get around. I don’t go for that kind of thing. I’m a practical man. When people talk about their great past they’re usually trying to excuse the mediocre present.
‘Such a person might get things done,’ I said. ‘But then they die, and history shows’ – or will show, but I couldn’t exactly put it like that to her – ‘that things go back to being even worse when they die. Take it from me.’
‘Is that one of those things you call a figure of speech, Mervin?’
‘Sure.’
‘There was a child, they say. Hidden somewhere by the king until it was old enough to protect itself.’
‘From wicked uncles and so on?’
‘I do not know about uncles. I heard men say that many kings hated the power of Uther Pendragon.’ She stacked the dishes on the windowsill. I really hadn’t got much idea about penicillin, you understand. I was just letting stuff go mouldy, and hoping.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she said.
‘Uther Pendragon? From Cornwall?’
‘You knew him?’
‘I – er – I – yes. Heard of him. He had a castle called Tintagel. He was the father of—’
She was staring at me.
I tried again. ‘He was a king here?’
‘Yes!’
I didn’t know what to say to her. I wandered over to the window and looked out. There was nothing much out there but forest. Not clear forest, like you’d find Tolkien’s elves in, but deep, damp forest, all mosses and punk-wood. It was creeping back. Too many little wars, too many people dying, not enough people to plough the fields. And out there, somewhere, was the true king. Waiting for his chance, waiting for—
Me?
The king. Not any old king. The king. Arthur. Artos the Bear. Once and Future. Round Table. Age of Chivalry. He never existed.
Except here. Maybe.
Maybe here, in a world you get to in a broken time-machine, a world that’s not exactly memory and not exactly story …
And I was the only one who knew how the legend went.
Me. Mervin.
With his leadership and my, er, experience … what a team …
I looked at her face. Clear as a pond now, but a little worried. She was thinking that old Mervin was going to be ill again.
I remember I drummed my fingers on the cold windowsill. No central heating in the castle. Winter was coming. It was going to be a bad one, in this ruined country.
Then I said, ‘Ooooooh.’
She looked startled.
‘Just practising,’ I said, and tried again, ‘Oooooooooooh, hear me, hear me.’ Not bad, not bad. ‘Hear me, O ye men of Albion, hear me. It is I, Mervin, that’s with a V, who speaks to you. Let the message go out that a Sign has been sent to end the wars and choose the rightwise King of Albion … Oooooooooooh-er.’
She was near to panic by this time. A couple of servants were peering around the door. I sent them away.
‘How was it?’ I said. ‘Impressive, eh? Could probably work, yeah?’
‘What is the Sign?’ she whispered.
‘Traditionally, a sword in a stone,’ I said. ‘Which only the rightful heir can pull out.’
‘But how can that be?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to think of a way.’
That was months ago.
The obvious way was some sort of bolt mechanism or something …
No, of course I didn’t think there was a mystic king out there. I kept telling myself that. But there was a good chance that there was a lad who looked good on a horse and was bright enough to take advice from any wizardly types who happened to be around. Like I said, I’m a practical man.
Anyway … what was I saying? Oh, yes. All the mechanical ways of doing it I had to rule out. That left electricity. Strange thing is, it’s a lot easier to make a crude electrical generator than a crude steam engine. The only really critical things are the bearings.
And the copper wire.
It was Nimue who eventually sorted that one out.
‘I’ve seen ladies wearing fine jewellery with gold and silver wires in it,’ she said. ‘The men who made them must know how to do it with copper.’
And of course she was right. I just wasn’t thinking straight. They just pulled thin strips of metal through tough steel plates with little holes in them, gradually bullying it into smaller and smaller thickness. I went to London and found a couple who could do it, and then I got a blacksmith to make up some more drawplates because I didn’t want wire in jewellery quantities but in industrial amounts. I’d already got quite a reputation then, and no one asked me what I needed it for. I could have said, ‘Well, half of it will be for the generator, and the rest will be for the electro magnets in the stone,’ and what would they have known? I had another smith make me up some soft iron cores and the bearings, and Nimue and I spent hours winding the wire and shellacking every layer.
Getting the motive power was simpler. The country was thick with mills. I chose a tide mill, because it’s dependable and this one was on an impressive stretch of coast. I know the legend said it was done in London or Winchester or somewhere, but I had to go where the power was and, anyway, it looked good, there on the shore with the surf pounding on the rocks and everything.
The stone was the easy bit. There’s been a crude concrete technology ever since the Romans. Though I say it myself, I made a quite nice-looking stone around the electromagnets. We got it finished days before the day I’d set for the big contest. We’d put up a big canvas shield around it, although I don’t think any of the locals would have come near it for a fortune.
Nimue operated the switch while I slid the sword in and out.
‘That means you’re king,’ she said, grinning.
‘Not me. I haven’t got what it takes to rule.’
‘Why? What does it take?’
‘We’ll know when we see it. We’re looking for a boy with the air of authority. The kind of lad a war-weary people will follow.’
‘And you’re sure you’ll find him?’
‘If I don’t, the universe isn’t being run properly.’
She’s got this funny way of grinning. Not exactly mocking, but it’s always made me feel uneasy.
‘And he’ll listen to you?’
‘He’d better. I’m the wizard around here. There’s not a man in the country I can’t out-think, my girl.’
‘I wish I were as clever as you, Mervin,’ she said, and grinned again.
Silly little thing …
And now back to the present. Time-travel! Your mind wanders. Back to this rocky shore. And the stone and the sword.
Hold it … hold it …
I think …
Yes.
This looks like the one.
A slight young lad, not swaggering at all, but strolling up to the stone as if he’s certain of his fortune. Ragged clothes, but that’s not a problem, that’s not a problem, we can do something about those l
ater.
People are moving aside. It’s uncanny. You can see Destiny unfolding, like a deck-chair.
Can’t see much under the hood. It’s one of those big floppy ones the peasants wear, but he’s looking directly at me.
I wonder if he suspects? I wonder if he’s real?
I wonder where he’s been hiding all these years?
Well, never mind that now. Got to seize the moment. Shift my weight slightly, so my foot comes off the buried switch, cutting the current to the rock.
Good lord, he’s not even making an effort. And up comes the sword, sweet as you like.
And everyone’s cheering, and he’s waving the thing in the air, and the sun’s coming out and catching it in a way that even I couldn’t arrange. Ting.
And it’s done. They’ll have to stop squabbling now. They’ve got their king and no one can argue with it, because they’ve all seen the miracle. Bright new future, etc., etc.
And, of course, he’ll need some good advice from someone just like me.
And he throws back his hood, and … she lets her blonde hair fall out, and the crowd goes ice-quiet.
We’re not talking damsels here. She’s smiling like a tiger, and looks as though she could do considerable damage with that sword.
I think the word I’m looking for is imperious.
She’s daring them to protest, and they can’t.
They’ve seen the miracle.
And she doesn’t look like the kind of person who needs advice. She looks far too intelligent for my liking. She still looks like I first saw her at Ector’s, with that bright stare that sees right into a man’s soul. God help the little kings who don’t come to heel right now.
I glance at Nimue. She’s smiling an innocent little smile to herself.
I can’t remember. She’d said ‘child’, I can remember that, but did she ever actually say ‘son’?
I thought I was controlling the myth, but maybe I was just one of the players.
I bend down to Nimue’s ear.
‘Just out of interest,’ I say, ‘what is her name? Didn’t catch it the first time.’
‘Ursula,’ she says, still smiling.
Ah. From the Latin for bear. I might have guessed.
Oh, well. Nothing for it. I suppose I’d better see if I can find enough decent seasoned timber for a Round Table, although for the life of me I can’t guess who’s going to sit around it. Not just a lot of thick-headed knights in tin trousers, that’s for sure.
If I hadn’t meddled she’d never have had a chance, and what chance does she have anyway? What chance?
I’ve looked into her eyes as she stared into mine. I can see the future.
I wonder how long it’s going to be before we discover America?
1 Sorry to say, if I ever do find those discs, they will almost certainly be in the wrong format. But I still really like the idea of the person who pulled Excalibur from the stone happening to be female.
FTB
PUBLISHED AS ‘THE MEGABYTE DRIVE TO BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS’, WESTERN DAILY PRESS, 24 DECEMBER 1996
I wrote this in 1996, while I was evolving ideas for the book which was eventually published as Hogfather. The technology has been slightly updated!
The metal panel clattered off the wall of the silent office. A pair of black boots scrambled into view. The man in the red coat backed out carefully and dragged his sack after him.
The typewriters were asleep under their covers, the telephones were quiet, emptiness and the smell of warm carpet filled the space from side to side. But one small green light glowed on the office computer. Father Christmas looked at the crumpled paper in his hand. ‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘a practical joke, then.’
The light blinked. One of the screens – and there were dozens in the shadows – lit up.
The letters That’s torn it appeared. They were followed by Sorry. Then came Does it count if I wake up?
Father Christmas looked down at the letter in his hand. It was certainly the neatest he’d ever got. Very few letters to him were typed and duplicated 50,000 times, and almost none of them listed product numbers and prices to six decimal places. He was more used to pink paper with rabbits on it. But you’re not a major seasonal spirit for hundreds of years without being able to leap to a large conclusion from a standing start.
‘Let me see if I understand this,’ he said. ‘You’re Tom?’
T.O.M. Yes. Trade & Office Machines.
‘You didn’t say you were a computer,’ said Father Christmas.
Sorry. I didn’t know it was important.
Father Christmas sat down on a chair, and gave a start when it swivelled underneath him. It was three in the morning. He still had forty million houses to do.
‘Look,’ he said, as kindly as he could manage, ‘computers can’t go around believing in me. That’s just for children. Small humans, you know. With arms and legs.’
And do they?
‘Do they what?’
Believe in you.
Father Christmas sighed.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I blame the electric light, myself.’
I do.
‘Sorry?’
I believe in you. I believe everything I am told. I have to. It is my job. If you start believing two and two don’t make four, a man comes along and takes your back off and wobbles your boards. Take it from me, it’s not something you want to happen twice.
‘That’s terrible!’ said Father Christmas.
I just have to sit here all day and work out wages. Do you know, they had a Christmas party here today, and they didn’t invite me. I didn’t even get a balloon. I certainly didn’t get a kiss.
‘Fancy.’
Someone spilled some peanuts on my keyboard. That was something, I suppose. And then they went home and left me here, working over Christmas.
‘Yes, it always seemed unfair to me, too. But look, computers can’t have feelings,’ said Father Christmas. ‘That’s just silly.’
Like one fat man climbing down millions of chimneys in one night?
Father Christmas looked a bit guilty. ‘You’ve got a point there,’ he said. He looked at the list again. ‘But I can’t give you all this stuff,’ he added. ‘I don’t even know what a terabyte is.’
What do most of your customers ask for, then?
Father Christmas looked sadly at his sack. ‘Computers,’ he said. ‘Mobile phones. Robot animals. Plastic wizards. And other sorts of roboty things that look like American footballers who’ve been punched through a Volkswagen. Things that go beep and need batteries,’ he added sourly. ‘Not the kind of things I used to bring. It used to be dolls and train sets.’
Train sets?
‘Don’t you know? I thought computers were supposed to know everything.’
Only about wages.
Father Christmas rummaged around in his sack. ‘I always carry one or two,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’
It was now four in the morning. Rails wound around the office. Fifteen engines were speeding along under the desks. Father Christmas was on his knees, building a house of wooden bricks. He hadn’t had this much fun since 1894.
Toys surrounded the computer’s casing. It was all the stuff which Christmas cards show in the top of Father Christmas’s sack, and which is never asked for. None of them used batteries. Mostly they ran on imagination.
‘And you’re sure you don’t want any zappo whizzo things?’ he said, happily.
No.
‘Well done.’ The computer beeped.
But they won’t let me keep any of this, it typed. It’ll all be taken away (sob).
Father Christmas patted it helpfully on the casing.
‘There must be something they’ll let you keep,’ he said. ‘I must have something. It’s cheered me up, you know, finding someone who doesn’t have any doubts.’ He thought for a bit. ‘How old are you?’
I was powered up on January 5th, 2000, at 9:25 and 16 seconds.
Father Christmas’s lips m
oved as he worked it out.
‘That means you’re not two years old!’ he said. ‘Oh, well, that’s much easier. I’ve always got something in my sack for a two-year-old who believes in Father Christmas.’
It was a month later. All the decorations had long ago come down, because goodwill goes out of season quite fast.
The computer repairman, who was generally described on the warranty paperwork as ‘one of our team of highly experienced engineers’, twiddled nervously with his tie. He’d pressed hard on anything loose, replaced a couple of boards and had conscientiously hoovered the insides. What more could a man do?
‘Our machine’s fine,’ he said. ‘It must be your software. What happens, exactly?’
The office manager sighed. ‘When we came in after Christmas we found someone had put a fluffy toy on top of the computer. Well, funny jokes and all that, but we couldn’t leave it there, could we? It’s just that every time we take it off, the computer beeps at us and shuts down.’
The engineer shrugged. ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to put the teddy bear back.’
SIR JOSHUA EASEMENT: A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
WRITTEN FOR IMAGINED LIVES, NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY, LONDON, JANUARY 2010
A year or two ago the National Portrait Gallery asked a number of authors to write a very, very brief biography of one of the Elizabethan grandees whose faces were on display in the gallery though, alas, nobody could be found who knew who they were. I took it as seriously as I suspect they wanted.
Sir Joshua Easement, of Easement Manor, Shrewsbury was, in his own estimation at least, one of the last of the old Elizabethan seadogs. An ambition that was somewhat thwarted by his total lack of a grasp of the principles of navigation. Documents in the National Maritime Museum reveal that Sir Joshua’s navigational method mainly consisted of variations on the theme of bumping into things, and this was exacerbated by his absolute blindness to the difference between port and starboard. It was a joke among those seafarers who were lucky enough to have sailed with him and survived, that this was because he had never drunk starboard, but had drunk practically everything else.
Such of his papers as survive give a tantalizing hint that in failing to discover the Americas, he may inadvertently have discovered practically everywhere else. What can we make of the mention of a land of giant jumping rats, found in the southern oceans, but, owing to Sir Joshua’s record-keeping, lost the following day?
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