Tales of the Once and Future King

by Anthony Marchetta

  With a hiss, the mechanisms started, and steam seeped into the boiler. And then it was over, the engine mended and the propeller spinning.

  “Make haste, Sir Bors. They’re calling us home, and we must not delay,” Nyneve said.

  Stonehenge

  Arthur gingerly set his boot on the rocky ground. He hoped Lancelot received the missive and didn’t worry overmuch. They’d dropped a note over the side as they passed over Camelot. Inside the Keep, men scurried this way and that, expecting them to land. When they didn’t, excitement turned to concern.

  Merlyn and Nyneve had refused to go down the rope ladder first, suspicious that Arthur might dump them off and be on his merry way. He didn’t go back on his word, even when it came to those two.

  Arthur helped Merlyn find her footing and then Nyneve. “So why are we here?”

  Merlyn smiled. “To give you a glimpse of what’s coming.” She glanced at Nyneve and Nyneve nodded. “And we have a gift for you.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened. “You’ve kidnapped my ship and crew to give me a gift?”

  Merlyn nodded before traipsing up the gently sloping knoll toward the ancient stone circle. Nyneve and Arthur followed quietly behind.

  The closer they came to the ancient structure, the more Arthur’s innards vibrated with some unseen force. He’d felt the same response only a few times in his life, all were while he was with Myrddin casting spells over his completed flying machines.

  “Come to the center,” Merlyn ushered Author in with Nyneve drawing up the rear. They took hands around him.

  “What are you doing?” Arthur fought panic that threatened to overwhelm his good sense.

  “Hush, King Arthur,” Nyneve said.

  King? He wasn’t the King. He was only the Captain of an airship, the leader of a factory. “What are you-?” His word cut off in the middle as a blinding light fell around them.

  And then he stood at the point of a mountain. A sword sparkled like a diamond before him, at the top of the world. He was drawn to the weapon, point-down in the granite peak. His hands settled around the hilt. It slid toward him easily, and a thrill traveled the length of his body.

  “This is Excalibur,” Nyneve whispered close to his ear. “I bequeath her, and all that she entails, to you. She is drawn to chivalrous hearts of gentlemen, forging strong leaders from those who wield her. Take the throne, brave Author. Lead Britain.”

  Arthur stared at the glowing sword in his hand. He was wreathed in fire from head-to-toe, but not burned. He’d thought magic had no place in his life. Perhaps he had been wrong. He glanced up at the sisters floating in the air above him.

  “We must return to the Lakes, but we’ll see you again. When you need us,” Merlyn said as she faded from sight. “When time calls us.”

  “Give my love to Gawain, Arthur,” Nyneve wiped a tear from her cheek. “I never meant to wound him.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “My love is real.” And then she faded from sight.

  And on the windswept landscape, he heard them whisper, “Beware the Templars.” And then the fire winked out.

  Arthur tightened his grip on the steel blade. When he swung it through his battle forms, it hummed a peculiar hum that brought strength to his bones and an intensity he had not known before. Above him, the Ether Joy waited to carry him home. Arthur didn’t know what came next, but he knew Excalibur had become his future.

  CHAPTER 16

  The morning of the rescue was a tense one. Though Maddie made and meant her promise, in truth she still wasn’t sure the rescue was a good idea. While none of them said it, the attitude seemed to be shared by the entire group; there was little speaking, and nerves seemed frayed.

  As everybody stood outside the theatre caravan, ready to board, Fox walked forward and addressed the crowd.

  “What you do,” said Fox, “you do for honor, and not because it is necessary, but because it is right. I do not pretend that we are destined for success. You may fail. You may die. The risk is there.

  “But remember: I am a bard. The Bard of the Pendragon, heir to Taliesin. My role is not only to tell stories, but to find them and remind the world that, once, there were heroes. The stories of the past, even before the time of King Arthur, live. They live in poetry. They live in song. So I tell you now the tale of a Beast, and how it was slain by a virtuous knight, and how the land was saved. Let it remind you that the import of your deeds today may live on to inspire the generations to come.”

  And Fox began.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Beast, by Ben Zwycky

  It lives, it breathes;

  Its senses prowl the land for prey.

  It lurks, deceives;

  Its fiendish plan is underway.

  Stifled screams across the town,

  As men of great and high renown

  Are found dismembered, savaged, mauled;

  All witnesses aghast, appalled,

  At what now stalks their every night

  And makes them huddle round the light,

  Hoping it will shield their souls

  From the creature’s awful goals.

  A shabby man of ill repute,

  Who’s seen this bloody scene repeat,

  Stands brandishing a weapon crude,

  Affirming a now ancient creed

  To protect the weak and frail,

  And sets off on the monster’s trail.

  Since here no paw prints can be found,

  He’ll search for them on softer ground.

  Rumours whisper of a hill

  Where blood runs cold before it’s spilled;

  Where hope is lost and brave men scream,

  Haunted by a savage dream.

  “That must be where it lays its head,

  I’ll ensure it wakes up dead.”

  He gathers victuals and supplies

  And heads to where the danger lies.

  He struggles up a lonely trail,

  Determined not to fall or fail.

  Thorns tear his furs, cold penetrates,

  Strength gradually deteriorates.

  He sleeps inside a hollow tree,

  A dwindling fire dulls misery

  Until the morning’s ashes speak

  Of the looming struggle bleak.

  Hacking through the undergrowth,

  He spots a clearing in the east:

  Amidst the scattered human bones,

  He locks eyes with the beast.

  With pointed snout and matted fur,

  Imposing frame that barely stirs

  It stands, so proud,

  And eyes the outcast’s tattered rags.

  And then, out loud,

  With smooth and cultured voice it brags,

  “Are you surprised to hear me speak?

  I am no simple rabid brute.

  I have no need to skulk or sneak

  Among the poor and destitute.

  “I was once a man like you,

  Despised for what I could not be;

  Yet through that fiery avenue

  I walked until my soul was free.

  “Then fate avenged my sorrows all

  And granted me this noble gift,

  To ensure the mighty fall

  And embody justice swift.”

  “Justice? You?

  Who murders fathers as they slept?

  All those you slew

  Left daughters, sons and wives who wept.”

  “You do not know how blind you are;

  I laid no hand upon those men,

  Merely watching from afar

  As they met their well-earned end.

  “I gave each one great tooth and claw

  Then showed him his own heart;

  When all the evil there he saw,

  Each tore himself apart.

  “And now in turn your soul I bless,

  Feel your surging righteous might!

  Do not give vile foulness rest,

  Dig it out and end your blight!”

  Holy rage c
onsumes his mind

  At filth that must now be removed;

  To all else he is almost blind,

  His razor claws the perfect tool.

  He somehow holds himself at bay,

  And stumbles down the tortured mound,

  ‘Til finally at break of day

  He wakes upon quite foreign ground.

  His claws have half retracted,

  But he’s clearly still a freak;

  While he is thus distracted,

  He’s startled by a squeak.

  “Hmm, what do we have out here?”

  Says an old man with a staff.

  He squints his eyes, displays no fear,

  And comments with a laugh,

  “A wanderer, I wonder,

  To venture out this far;

  It makes me pause and ponder

  Whether you know where you are.”

  “Stay back, old man, for your own sake,

  Or call for help at least;

  The rage within me may yet break,

  I’ve been cursed by the beast.”

  “That much is clear, my burdened friend,

  Your teeth and claws stand out;

  You’re not the first to meet his end

  And end up hereabout.”

  “Meet his end, so I am dead?

  I failed like all the rest?”

  “No, you somehow kept your head

  And now you are my guest.

  “I’ll wager you don’t live in fear

  Of losing name or station,

  So can stand and persevere

  Upon a new foundation.”

  “I cling to life but barely,

  Guilt and rage tear at my soul.

  Clarity comes rarely,

  How can I hope to be made whole?”

  “There is a way, old rumours say,

  To dissipate this curse.

  Though on the Hill of Myth there may

  Be also something worse.”

  “Worse than this affliction?

  What could cause me more regret?

  What sort of benediction

  Carries such an awful threat?”

  “You asked for hope, that’s all I know;

  There is no simple cure;

  You have to walk against the flow,

  And most of all, endure.”

  “Who are you, that you don’t flee

  From my horrific countenance?”

  “My name is Cuinn, and as you see

  This frame would make poor sustenance.

  “Fleeing would not help my fate

  Nor aid you on your troubled path;

  So I’ll stay by my garden gate,

  Offer help and risk your wrath.”

  “My name is Daric, or it was, when I was still a man;

  If you can truly help me, then I’ll gladly shake your hand.

  I only hope the beast in me will stay under control,

  And one day you will be rewarded for your gracious soul.”

  A warm meal is provided that gives relief and strength;

  Cuinn retrieves a faded map, describes the route at length,

  Packs a bag with fresh supplies then sends him on his way,

  Towards the distant mountains at the very break of day.

  Daric sees a pack of wolves surrounding an old cart,

  Threatening to tear its screaming occupants apart.

  Brave parents armed with pitchforks try to keep the beasts at bay,

  But there is little hope that they will see another day.

  Daric charges down the hill, transforming as he leaps

  Into the canine pack, discarding bodies piled in heaps.

  They retreat when they see he is more fearsome than they,

  The little family is now free to go upon their way.

  Instead of offering their thanks, their cries grow shriller still,

  They fear him more than snarling wolves who closed in for the kill.

  Their lack of gratitude inflames the growling beast within;

  He flees before it takes control and wipes out all their kin.

  Daric presses on through hills and fields alive with streams,

  Through dark and barren lands that seem more like a fever dream,

  Past riverbanks and still lake shores and even ocean coasts,

  By ruined citadels whose shadows swarm with silent ghosts.

  Then at last he spots the end point marked upon his map;

  The beast screams deep within him that this place is but a trap.

  He ventures forward warily to scale the verdant slope,

  As bitter fear is blended with a truly lethal hope.

  Atop the lonely peak he finds a pair of silver beams,

  Moulded at right angles, giving off a ghostly gleam.

  This place’s eerie atmosphere has silenced all the birds,

  He steps forward with trembling at the old man’s warning words.

  Despite the growing protests of the beast, he reaches out,

  Touches purest silver and then with a silent shout

  The rage of all the ages flows through and out of him;

  His knees begin to falter and his vision starts to swim.

  He sees a man of purest good, defender of the weak,

  Who shames the mighty with the truth, heals those who cannot speak,

  Who gives the cripple and the lame new strength to leap and dance,

  And frees the tortured and oppressed from their dark hellish trance.

  Daric feels pure envy surging up from deep within,

  Unlike the sin the beast ‘revealed’, this comes from inside him.

  This man shows Daric how far short he falls of what is right;

  Shame turns into anger and he rages at the light.

  The powerful that hate that man rouse up a vicious mob,

  Accusing him of every evil thing they could think of.

  Daric finds his inner self concurring with the horde,

  Demanding blood to have his own self-righteousness restored.

  The man is taken, beaten, scourged, then hung up on display,

  So he can be taunted as his lifeblood drips away.

  Black tendril clouds of evil all converge on his pinned form,

  As the guilt of ages swarms at him in a wrathstorm.

  The skies turn black, the mountains shake,

  Great idols fall, disintegrate.

  Demons shout and celebrate

  His death, and when the noise abates

  Daric’s anger at the truth

  Turns back to shame that saps his youth.

  “That man did not deserve his fate,

  But pity now is far too late.

  I truly am a loathsome fiend

  That should be kept and quarantined

  From all that’s pure and clean and good

  Until I am the jackals’ food.”

  Then Daric’s bathed in radiant light

  And treated to the joyful sight

  Of that man back to life in power

  At his own appointed hour.

  Justice has been served and won;

  Wrath is spent and guilt is gone.

  He offers Daric his pierced hand,

  Smiles warmly and then helps him stand.

  Daric finds his beast is stilled,

  His old corrupted self is killed.

  A noble peace is in his heart;

  He’s ready for a whole new start.

  The man ascends into the sky,

  Leaving Daric misty-eyed.

  Behind the cross he sees a door

  In the rocky mountain floor.

  The trapdoor opens with a creak

  To reveal a tunnel bleak

  Sloping down into the dark,

  Then a torch lights with a spark.

  He takes the torch and ventures down

  The passage dank and winding,

  Its walls engraved with horses, crowns,

  And at its end then finding

  Beside a rusty metal g
ate

  A shining sword, shield, suit of plate,

  Upon which eagles are engraved;

  Here is the glory Daric craved,

  And yet this gleam is not so prized,

  Now that he has been chastised.

  Above the armour rack a plaque

  Warns in lettering most stark:

  WHO WOULD GRASP THIS NOBLE HILT

  MUST BE FREE OF VICE AND GUILT,

  MUST STAY UPON THE RIGHTEOUS PATH,

  OR FALL VICTIM TO HIS OWN WRATH.

  So with solemn oath he takes

  The armour and, with hand that shakes,

  He grasps the hilt of that great sword,

  Salutes the hill and gives his word.

  Beyond the gate a passage grey

  That leads by narrow, hidden way

  To a gorge quite overgrown

  With walls of uninviting stone.

  He hacks his way through underbrush,

  Emerging in a meadow lush.

  He strolls on down the gentle slope,

  His heart now light and full of hope.

  He finds his bearings, heads off back

  Along a dry and dusty track.

  It takes him on a different route

  (With stops to shake stones from his boot)

  Across a plateau, past a bog,

  Through strange terrain obscured by fog;

  As he rounds a disused sty,

  He hears a stifled female cry.

  “Hold your tongue, you worthless wench,

  There are no saints to save you;

  We’ll leave your body in a trench,

  Or perhaps enslave you.

  “Your shack will make a useful base

  For our next operation;

  To keep intact your pretty face,

  You’d better learn your station.”

  Daric spots the vicious voice’s source beside a tree;

  Four bandits have a fair young maid encircled hopelessly.

  Her fiery curls and bold green eyes are strong but full of fear,

  Since she is unaware that some help is very near.

  Daric grabs a stone and hurls it at the nearest lout;

  The bandit crumples to the ground before he can cry out.

  The other three all dive for cover and the young maid flees

  Towards Daric’s position as they melt into the trees.

  “Stay behind me!” Daric calls, emerging, sword in hand,

  With shield held up and visor down he loudly takes a stand.

  “This lady is not here alone, fight now or leave her be!

  I have no time for so-called men who act so cowardly.”

  They do not reappear, and when it’s clear they’ve gone,