The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  The doorbell rang. Uther again. ‘I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘His name is Arthur.’

  ‘An excellent name,’ said Merlin.

  Four

  1995

  To the West of Carmarthen, not far from Merlin’s birthplace, and less than a dozen miles from the Bristol Channel, the tiny village of Ponterlally sits cosily in a fertile valley. At the east end of the valley, two flat-topped hills known locally as Adam and Eve overlook the forest called Eden. There, according to Ponterlally’s official storyteller, golden-eyed lions hunt on moonless nights, and loose skinned elephants shuffle their ponderous dance at sunrise. Most villagers, however, see only hedgehogs, rabbits, squirrels, foxes, stoats, badgers and deer, and hear the raucous caw of crows at dusk and the hoot of owls in the snug hours of the night.

  The village stream, called Lally, a distant relative several times removed from the river Severn, bustles through the valley, flowing down the shop side of the main street, under the stone bridge that tradition says was built by Julius Caesar, then south to join its tributary kinsfolk on the slow march to the sea.

  In this valley of orchards, farms and fairy tales, lived the Hughes: young Hector and Elizabeth, man and wife, both born in the village, friends from childhood days. Elizabeth was a woman of strong character and emotions, and Hector a sensible fellow with a logical mind, both feet planted firm as oaks in the land of his birth.

  At eighteen Hector went to the village school to teach, on the understanding that it was only a temporary commitment until he found his true vocation. Never a week went by that he did not ponder his future, until the day came, many long years later, when he was astonished to discover that what he had been doing all his life was what he had always wanted to do. Elizabeth, for her part, never had the smallest doubt that what she was doing was right for her. She was a part-time social worker, as well as being a wife to the man she had loved since she was twelve, and a mother to their only child, eleven months old Keir.

  ‘The little darling,’ she said, her pretty face glowing with happiness as she stroked the baby’s tiny cheeks with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘You know something? He looks like you,’ she told Hector, who was about to point out the logical fallacy when he caught the look in Merlin’s eye and thought better of it.

  Merlin beckoned his friends to the kitchen table. Husband and wife sat opposite hi m, Hector with his arm round Elizabeth whilst she cradled baby Arthur. ‘I want you both to promise me something. When Arthur is ready to hear it, you must tell him he is adopted.’

  Hector liked to have the whys and wherefores of everything. ‘How will we know when he’s ready?’

  ‘When the time comes, you will know. But whatever happens, you must tell him before his thirteenth birthday. Do I have your promise?’ Merlin was looking at Elizabeth.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘Though why you men always want everything so cut and dried I shall never know.’

  Merlin was content. ‘You will make him a fine mother.’ ‘Will he want to know who . . . they are?’ She could not bring

  herself to use the word “parents”, for in her own mind Arthur was already her child, and she had no intention of sharing him with anyone.

  ‘One day he will,’ said Merlin. ‘Who are they?’ asked Hector.

  Merlin smiled, knowing his friend as well as he did. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that now.’

  Hector sighed, frustrated. ‘It’s just that I like to have everything clear.’

  ‘I know,’ said Merlin. He reached across and patted Hector’s shoulder affectionately. ‘Patience, my friend. Everything will be clear in time.’

  As Elizabeth rocked the sleeping child, her whole body was flooded by a wave of tenderness so powerful that she almost fainted. When her head cleared, she said, looking down at him, ‘My son is special.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merlin. ‘Why us?’ she asked.

  ‘It is written,’ said Merlin enigmatically.

  For a full minute they did not speak. The bracket clock on the mantelpiece ticked self-importantly, the damp logs hissed and snapped in the flames. ‘On the sixteenth of January,’ said Merlin, breaking the silence, ‘is the next full moon. I will tell you what you must do.’

  Whenthe night of the full moon came, the outside temperature was below zero. Hector stood at the kitchen door that led to the back garden. ‘Be reasonable, Elizabeth, it’s far too cold.’

  She clasped the baby to her bosom. ‘We gave Merlin our word.’

  To Hector it simply did not make sense, and if a thing didn’t make sense, you shouldn’t do it. ‘It’s freezing out there. You want the boy to catch pneumonia?’

  ‘We must do as Merlin told us. Don’t ask me why. I just know it,’ said Elizabeth, beginning to remove the baby’s clothes.

  ‘Are you out of your mind, girl? The poor mite will catch his death!’

  ‘Stand aside, Hector.’ She spoke quietly but with such authority that he moved away from the door, though still protesting.

  ‘This is madness. I’ll tell Merlin we did what he wanted us to do. He’ll never know we didn’t.’

  ‘He’ll know,’ insisted Elizabeth.

  Hector shook his head in bewilderment. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Some things don’t.’ With that she opened the door and went out to the garden followed by Hector, muttering angrily. The night sky was overcast, the moon and stars nowhere to be seen. Elizabeth held the naked baby high, and Hector, shrugging his shoulders in defeat, found himself speaking aloud the words that Merlin said would come to him.

  ‘We offer you your son, Arthur, who has come again. We shall love him as our own; we shall prepare him as far as we are able. It is written that he will be wise and courageous and will perform great deeds. It is written that he will know much happiness, and much sadness too. It is also written that when his time comes he will be reunited with the Creator and with everything that lives and dies. We offer you your son, Arthur, who has come again.’

  As Hector spoke, the clouds parted, and the full glory of the shimmering silver planet was unveiled in the eastern sky. ‘We offer you your son, Arthur, who has come again. We shall teach him, as far as we are able, to know the planets and the stars and the galaxies, and all the heavenly bodies. We shall teach him, as far as we are able, to know himself, and to love his fellow men and all creatures. We shall teach him, as far as we are able, to fear nothing, neither life nor death. We offer you your son, Arthur, who has come again.’

  Then the sky blazed with a light so dazzling that they were forced to turn away their faces. Gurgling with joy, the baby reached up his tiny arms as if to greet the heavens, kicking his legs and wriggling so hard that Elizabeth feared she might drop him.

  Filled with wonder, they brought him back into the kitchen. Despite the biting cold outside, his little naked body was as warm as toast. Still Elizabeth was taking no chances; wrapping Arthur in a shawl, she sat in front of the fire and held him until he fell asleep. She was about to return him to his own crib, when on an impulse she laid him next to his adoptive brother.

  Immediately, Keir began to cry.

  Hector picked up Keir, put him across his shoulder and patted him gently on the back. When he stopped crying, he laid him next to Arthur again. For a few moments the two babies lay quietly side by side. But then, to Hector’s surprise, Keir began to shriek louder than ever, fists clenched, face bright red, feet drumming the mattress. ‘Poor baba’s got wind,’ said Hector soothingly.

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘That’s not wind,’ she said, ‘that’s rage.’ And the instant she put Arthur back in his own cot, Keir stopped crying.

  Five

  2001

  Having served ten years as Deputy Director of the Weapons and Communications Research and Development Unit, Merlin handed in his resignation. It was a disappointment, if not entirely a surprise to Colonel James Armstrong, Merlin’s boss, and a major setback for the Ministry of Defence. Whilst Merlin was unknown to the
general public, amongst researchers and scientists his name was magic. Britain now led the world in several important fields – robots, nano-technology, communications and weapons technology amongst others –

  and the explanation was simple: Merlin Thomas.

  The Defence Minister was on the phone the next day. ‘This is extremely bad news, James. The PM is seriously upset. It’s no exaggeration to say that the United Kingdom owes its pre- eminent position in the world to Merlin, not to mention our economic prosperity. He has boosted our sales of weapons and technology several hundred percent. We simply cannot afford to lose him.’

  No one knew that better than James Armstrong. ‘I understand, sir, but I’m afraid he has made up his mind.’

  ‘Then make him change it.’ ‘How?’

  ‘Give him what he wants. Double his salary if necessary.’

  James Armstrong sighed. In his experience politicians were invariably hardened cynics, judging others by their own dubious standards. ‘It isn’t a question of money.’

  ‘Do I need to remind you that everyone has his price,’ said the minister wearily. ‘Discover what that is, and we have him,

  James. It could be money, it could be a country house, it could be a generous douceur, it could be a title. For all we know he might settle for an Aston Martin. Whatever it takes. I mean what I say, James: whatever it takes. Am I making myself clear?’

  He would have to be as big an idiot as the minister not to understand him. ‘Yes, sir. Crystal clear.’

  James Armstrong conveyed the minister’s message as tactfully as possible, but as he expected, nothing could tempt Merlin.

  ‘At least tell me why you’re leaving. For my own satisfaction.’

  ‘I have something more important to do,’ said Merlin vaguely.

  ‘What could be more important than serving your country?’

  Merlin hesitated; there were things he could not discuss, even with James. ‘Let’s just say I have another master to serve.’

  That was hard to credit. ‘Does that mean you are going to work for the competition?’

  Merlin smiled. ‘In a way.’

  ‘I must say you surprise me, Merlin. You are always saying the world is in grave danger, and here you are walking out on us. What has changed?’

  It was a good question, and again, hard to answer truthfully. ‘Nothing. The terrorists have the weapons and the technology to destroy us. Every year that passes brings mankind closer to annihilation.’

  In spite of himself, James Armstrong shivered. ‘Twilight of the gods? Ragnarok? Götterdämmerung?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  There were times when Merlin scared him, and this was one of them. ‘My God, you sound like an Old Testament prophet.’

  ‘I fear you don’t take me seriously.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said James Armstrong earnestly. ‘So does the PM.’

  A sceptical smile. ‘Only because I’m good for the country’s arms trade. Believe me, James, there are greater priorities than exporting weapons. The time is fast approaching when we shall no longer have the capacity to take on the terrorists and the terror states. Our armed forces are weak and unprepared. The same is true of the rest of Europe, and even of the United States. Their soldiers don’t want to fight, and as for their technology, it may be expensive, but it doesn’t do the job.’

  Merlin looked and sounded as sombre as Armstrong had ever known him. ‘We need to strengthen our defences, no doubt about it,’ he admitted.

  ‘Being able to defend yourself is not enough,’ said Merlin. ‘If you wait for your enemies to strike, it is always too late. We have to hunt them down wherever they are – seek them out, and destroy them.’

  If Merlin felt so strongly, then why in heaven’s name was he resigning? ‘This is no time to walk away, man. Stay and give us the means to destroy our enemies before they destroy us.’

  ‘I can give you the means. What I can’t give you is the will,’ said Merlin sadly. ‘We are in the hands of politicians who are not interested in the future of mankind. All they care about is getting elected, lining their pockets and promoting their image.’

  So that was it. That was why he had resigned. Merlin had finally given up on the politicians. And who could blame him? James Armstrong tried one last desperate throw of the dice. ‘I shall probably have to resign myself.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘The PM is furious with me. He thinks I’m responsible for your resignation.’

  Merlin chuckled. ‘You never were a very good liar, James.’ Armstrong raised his hands in surrender. ‘Alright, I confess.

  It was a crude attempt at emotional blackmail. But do me one favour. The PM’s PPS is desperate to see you. Go and talk to him. At least it would get them off my back. That much you owe me.’

  Alec Pettifer, Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Prime Minister, crossed the room with a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand. ‘A privilege to meet you, Mr Thomas. You have quite a reputation here. Do sit down.’

  The two men faced each other across the PPS’s imposing desk. The PPS prided himself on being a cool, twenty-first century man. He had seen most things, though never anything quite as bizarre as Merlin Thomas, quite the most oddly dressed individual ever to enter Number 10, even in these egalitarian days. What was he wearing? A knee-length sheet, and what looked like a hessian sack with pockets. As for that scraggy, shoulder-length blond hair . . . he looked more like a pop star than a major brain. Still, genius often came in strange packages. Twenty-five, and the greatest mind since Leonardo da Vinci, so it was said.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Merlin. May I call you Merlin?’

  He already had, hadn’t he? ‘Of course.’

  ‘I am authorised by the Prime Minister to offer you a knighthood.’

  ‘Why?’

  Now the PPS had considerable experience in such matters. Offers of honours elicited varying responses; either fulsome gratitude, or incredulity, or some disingenuous expression of unworthiness was invariably involved. Never in his experience had anyone responded with a question quite so challenging, more than challenging – provoking. ‘Are you asking me in what way you have earned a knighthood?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Merlin, ‘I have not the slightest doubt that I have earned it. I am questioning the Prime Minister’s motives in offering it to me.’

  Bloody impertinence. Who did this spook think he was? The PPS took a deep breath and resolved to remain calm. His speciality was handling awkward customers with skill and tact. ‘The PM feels it is time to recognise your outstanding work in research. He believes, and I understand his view is shared by the President of the United States, that your contribution has been unique and invaluable in many fields, not least in the development of new weapons systems, satellite surveillance, communications, and micro-technology – to say nothing of your remarkable work with – um – robots.’

  ‘What you say about my work is undoubtedly true,’ said Merlin, who saw no point in false modesty. ‘I was wondering whether the timing of the offer had any particular significance?’

  ‘A simple case of achievement justly rewarded.’

  ‘There are no conditions attached? Because if there are . . . ’ ‘None whatsoever,’ confirmed Pettifer.

  Merlin considered. ‘I am most grateful for the honour, then.’

  ‘It is we who should be grateful. Your work at Weapons Research has been, and of course continues to be, of national importance.’

  Merlin’s eyes flashed. ‘Continues to be? But I have handed in my resignation. Had you not heard?’

  An unctuous beam. ‘I believe there was some . . . chatter, though I never took it seriously. Anyway, I imagine that now . . . ’

  ‘Am I being asked to withdraw my resignation?’

  Alec Pettifer shifted uneasily in his chair. He was not accustomed to being put in corners. A corner was not a convenient place from which to conduct good public relations. ‘The PM ex
pects nothing from his friends, nothing, that is, but loyalty. I’m not saying he would not be enormously . . . pleased, and . . . relieved, if you were to see fit to stay on another . . . what shall we say?’ He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the unsettling effect of Merlin’s gaze. It was like being observed by two shining satellite dishes. ‘ . . . another year or two, perhaps? Entirely up to you, of course. Absolutely voluntary.’ He bared his teeth, emphasising how voluntary it was. ‘Shall we say . . . three or four years? So much work to be done. Your decision, naturally. The PM was adamant. No conditions, no deals. He has the very greatest respect for your integrity.’

  ‘And my millennium proposals for research and development?’

  ‘Are being studied.’

  ‘What about my paper on the formation of a dedicated anti- terrorist task force?’

  ‘That too is under consideration.’ ‘But not acted on.’

  ‘Give it time, Merlin. The wheels of government . . . ’ ‘How long?’

  The PPS offered up the palms of his hands. ‘We do what we can. The constraints of budgets, you know. People do so loathe paying taxes. Who can blame them?’

  He was already congratulating himself on his people skills, and on a job well done. It could so easily have ended differently. Pushing back his chair, he clapped his hands on his knees and leaned forward, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘Your name will be in the New Year’s Honours’ List. May I be the first to congratulate you.’

  Merlin stood. ‘Be sure to thank the Prime Minister. Tell him how much I appreciate his kind offer, which under the circumstances, and with regret, I cannot accept.’

  In the act of rising, Alec Pettifer froze in a crouching position. ‘You are turning down a knighthood?’