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

by Unknown

  In vain the defending counsel strove to establish that one gerbil was incapable of breaking another gerbil’s neck. She was told by the judge that she knew nothing about gerbils and was talking complete nonsense. This line of reasoning being discredited, counsel fell back on her last line of defence: this was not murder, she argued, but a crime of passion, and should therefore be regarded as manslaughter.

  The judge summed up, following which the jury, consisting of three baby gerbils, a rat, two white mice, a hamster, a guinea pig, a grass snake, a tortoise, a bird-eating spider and a talking mynah bird, was asked to consider its verdict. Not surprisingly there was no response from their cages for a long time.

  ‘This is silly,’ said Elaine. ‘We’ll never get a verdict out of this lot.’

  ‘Silence!’ said Morgan. Once more she addressed the foreman of the jury, the talking mynah bird: ‘I ask you again. What is your verdict?’ After another lengthy delay, the mynah bird squawked something unintelligible.

  Turning to the accused, the judge enquired, ‘Have you anything to say before sentence is pronounced?’

  ‘I object!’ said Elaine.

  ‘On what grounds?’ asked the judge.

  ‘The verdict was unclear. In fact I thought he said not guilty.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said the judge. ‘Why is it impossible?’

  ‘Because I only taught him to say guilty. So there!’ The judge then stuck out her tongue at counsel for the defence.

  ‘This trial is a farce,’ said Elaine in disgust. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘No one is allowed to go to bed before I pass sentence.’ ‘Then get on with it,’ said Margot. ‘It’s one o’clock and I’m

  tired.’

  Morgan put on Uther’s bowler hat. ‘Tom Gerbil, I sentence you to death.’ As an afterthought, she added, ‘By hanging . . . and it has to be by the neck.’

  ‘I object!’ said Elaine. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘The death sentence was abolished years ago.’ ‘Yes,’ said the judge, ‘but not for gerbils.’

  The judge then invited both counsels to witness the execution.

  They were to assemble before dawn the following morning. ‘You must be joking,’ said Margot. ‘No one’s getting me up

  at that hour.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Elaine.

  The play was over and the curtain had fallen. The masquerade had been enormous fun but now they would have to find something else to entertain them. No one would be getting up early, of course. The whole thing would be forgotten in the morning. But it wasn’t. Morgan’s powers of persuasion were formidable, and Elaine’s and Margot’s curiosity got the better of them. In the dark depressing hour before dawn they found themselves by the old apple tree, all three sisters shivering in their flimsy dressing-gowns. The sky was overcast, the air damp and bitingly cold.

  Morgan took a pair of leather gloves from a Sainsbury shopping bag, pulled them on, and removed Tom from his cage. The poor little gerbil was shivering too, though whether from fright or from cold it was impossible to tell. ‘He’s quite happy really,’ said Morgan cheerfully. ‘He ate a hearty breakfast, just like condemned prisoners are supposed to. And he had an extra helping of gerbil food. Didn’t you, Tom?’ she said, chucking him under the chin. ‘And a whopping piece of apple. Yes, you did, you naughty boy.’ Whereupon she turned her back on them.

  Eyes shining, shuddering and giggling by turns, Elaine and Margot had forgotten the cold. Morgan turned round again and showed them Tom. His tiny feet were tied together with string and he was jerking his head and wriggling his body in a vain effort to be free. ‘There, there, Tom,’ said Morgan, putting him back in his cage, ‘no need to be upset.’

  For a moment Elaine and Margot were disappointed, thinking this must be the end of the drama. But there was more to come. They watched fascinated as their baby sister plunged her hand into the plastic bag and produced a length of rope with a slip noose already tied at one end. The noose she flung over a branch so that it dangled about three feet from the ground. The other end of the rope she wound round the trunk of the apple tree and knotted it.

  There was a hint of alarm in Margot’s eyes. ‘What is she doing?’

  ‘It’s all make-believe,’ said Elaine, reassuring her sister.

  Morgan opened Tom’s cage and took him out again, clasping his body firmly in the leather gloves so that only his tiny head was visible. Twisting this way and that, the gerbil tried to bite her fingers but his teeth could not penetrate the gloves.

  Elaine yawned. ‘Let’s go to bed now, Moggy.’ The gerbil’s eyes bulged with terror. He had stopped struggling and was uttering high-pitched squeaks, as if he were pleading for his life. ‘Moggy?’ No response. Elaine’s voice sharpened. ‘Moggy! I know this is make-believe, but that’s enough now. Put Tom back in his cage.’ Morgan did not seem to hear. Slowly, and with great care, she removed her right hand from the gerbil, and with a quick movement flipped the noose over his head. ‘No!’ said Margot, suddenly fearful. ‘You’re hurting him.’

  The creature gave a plaintive shriek that changed to a gurgle as Morgan pulled the noose tight. ‘Take it off, Moggy. Take the rope off.’ Elaine’s voice was oddly calm and reasonable, as though she were trying to pacify a madwoman.

  Morgan looked up and nodded. At last, they thought, they had got through to her. She was about to put an end to the macabre charade. But Morgan had nodded for another reason. In the dark sky the first pale gleam of light had appeared. ‘It’s dawn,’ she said, and let go the gerbil. For a few moments it dangled by the neck at the end of the rope, struggling, at first frantically, then feebly.

  Elaine made a grab for the gerbil but Morgan was too quick for her. Seizing the little creature’s body with both hands, she pulled down sharply. They heard the crack as its neck snapped.

  Suddenly Margot understood. ‘My God!’ she whispered, ‘that’s what she did to Mary!’ Elaine and Margot huddled together and watched, horrified and fascinated, as the limp corpse of the gerbil slowly revolved at the end of the rope, first one way, then the other, until finally it was still. They turned and ran back to the house, arms around each other, shivering from cold and shock.

  When her sisters had disappeared in the gloom, Morgan cut down the dead gerbil. ‘There, Tom,’ she said, kissing the tiny broken body and pressing it to her cheek, ‘it’s all over now. I had to punish you, didn’t I? I did it for Margie. You shouldn’t have put your thing in her, Tom. You really shouldn’t have.’ Laying the corpse carefully on the compost heap, she followed her sisters back to the house.

  Twelve

  2005

  Merlin had been hired to teach mathematics and science at Glastonbury School. In practice, though, he taught

  every subject under the sun, including some that were not on the curriculum of any school in the land. As he had promised Hector and Elizabeth, he kept an eye on Keir and Arthur, and in particular, for his own reasons, on Arthur.

  Keir hated sport but was a solid, if uninspired, student. Arthur was an excellent all-round cricketer, a fine scrum-half and a promising tennis player. Academically he held his own, although his heart wasn’t in it. The classroom was no more congenial to him than a cage to a wild animal, and he spent most of the time peering out of the window wishing he were anywhere but where he was.

  When first he came to Glastonbury Arthur was invited to tea by his housemaster, as were all new boys. Merlin was pouring tea when there was a whir of wings, and an owl perched on his wrist. ‘Ah.’ Merlin laid down the pot and stroked Virgil’s chest feathers. ‘This is Virgil.’

  Arthur’s eyes were big. ‘He’s a barn owl, isn’t he?’ ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s beautiful.’

  Virgil puffed up his feathers proudly until he was twice his normal size. When Arthur held out his hand Virgil took two fingers in his beak and nibbled them gently. Then he jumped onto Arthur’s shoulder and began to inspect his hair. Merlin beamed. ‘He does that to me.
He’s never done it to anyone else.’

  How different the two brothers were, Merlin was thinking as he watched the owl and the young boy. A year ago he had introduced Keir to Virgil, and Keir had made what he obviously thought were owl sounds. Instead of responding, Virgil had turned his back on him. Not wanting Keir to feel rejected, Merlin had tried to explain that birds and animals needed to be treated as individuals, just as human beings did. But Keir was not interested. What was the point of an owl or a blackbird? What use was a fox or a mouse or a weasel? Now fish were something else. Fish you could catch and put in a basket and take home and eat.

  As Arthur settled into his first term Merlin left his academic studies in the hands of other teachers, believing there were more important things for him to learn than anything to be found in books. If Arthur wanted fun, then that was what Merlin would provide, and so he concentrated on making learning fun, and Arthur learned without knowing he was learning.

  With the magus there were no formal lessons. Merlin might, if he felt like it, mumble ‘Astronomy’ or ‘Geography’ or ‘History’ or ‘Zoology’ to give Arthur some idea what it was he was about to experience, for that is what all Merlin’s lessons were; there were no lectures and no exams, only experiences. Master and pupil would go for long excursions in the country at weekends and talk about anything and everything, though never about schoolwork. Most of the time Merlin was the best company in the world, cheerful and ebullient. Occasionally, for no apparent reason, a black mood descended on him and the magus would withdraw into himself like a tree in winter. Arthur would be concerned and finger the small scar on his left cheek as he sometimes did when he was troubled, wondering where his friend and teacher had gone; but then suddenly the dark cloud would lift and Merlin was alive again, sprouting words and gestures like spring leaves.

  From time to time he would show Arthur one of his conjuring tricks, or so he called them. But where in this world or any other was there a conjurer like Merlin? ‘Astronomy’ he would say, slip his hand into his pocket and pull out first a miniature Sun, and then in quick succession, Mercury and Venus, Earth and Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Uranus, Neptune and Pluto. A wave of the hand, and there wheeling overhead, was the solar system. Soon Arthur knew the night sky like the back of his hand – the Great Bear and Orion’s Belt, Taurus the bull, Aries the ram, Cancer the Crab and the scales of Libra. He would lie awake on a starlit night and dream himself into space, and into time past and future, until his spirit left his body and floated among the stars.

  A mumbled ‘Geography’, a nod of the head, and there were the Victoria Falls, or the Pyramids, or Venice, or St. Petersburg, or the polar icecap. Studying an atlas was fine but having the world come to you was surely better. History? The wink of an eye, and there was Nelson or Socrates, Julius Caesar or George Washington. For other boys history was dead and gone; for Arthur it was alive and here and now.

  Botany and Zoology? Merlin taught the lad all there was to know about the natural world and by the time he was thirteen Arthur knew the name of every flower and shrub, every bush and tree, every insect and butterfly, every bird and animal. In the dust Merlin would draw the outline of wild geese and goshawks, robins, blackbirds and nightingales. A flick of the fingers, and he would send them flying. In no time at all Arthur knew the birds of the air better than he knew the palm of his own hand, every detail of every feather, every speckle of every egg, every note of every warble.

  Animals came next. Merlin would raise his hand and conjure up a lion or an impala, a tiger or a bear, a wolf or a reindeer. Fortunately none of them showed the smallest inclination to eat Arthur, for the power of the Magus confined them to their world.

  Then followed the patterns and functions of plants and trees, stones and rocks and clouds, streams and oceans, black holes and galaxies, so that soon Arthur was as familiar with the boundless universe as he was with his own small room.

  When Arthur had learned enough to know that he would never know enough, Merlin decided it was time to give his young protégé some practical experience. ‘Do you know what it’s like to be a dog?’

  Arthur laughed and shook his head, and the next thing he knew, Merlin was stooping to pat him, asking, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am a dog,’ growled Arthur, wandering, nose to the ground, to smell out any rabbits in the neighbourhood. Never had he imagined that life could be so interesting. What smells! He could smell the whole delicious, odorous world! What was more, every smell signified something tremendously important. And what sounds! Such wondrous sounds! He could hear every note that every bird sang, every step that every creature took, every breath of wind, every creak of every branch, every rustle of every leaf. He could even hear Merlin breathing.

  ‘Yes, I know what it’s like to be a dog.’ ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Wasn’t I a dog once? Or did I imagine it?’

  Merlin chuckled. ‘You imagined so hard, you imagined yourself out of your head. That’s the first lesson, Arthur. Most people are trapped inside their heads, all they care about is themselves, all they know is themselves. You have learned how to escape from your head.’

  After a time Arthur could imagine almost anything – what it was like to be an owl like Virgil, or a blackbird, or a thrush, or a plant or a tree, or a fish (he was very thoughtful after that experience), or a field mouse, or a mole, a hedgehog or a squirrel, an otter or a badger, a bee or a snail – what it was like to be almost anything, in fact, anything that lived in the whole wide, vibrant, excellent world.

  One day, Merlin said, ‘Imagine being a lion.’

  That was a real challenge, for apart from Merlin’s conjurings, he had only seen pictures of lions. But to his own surprise, he heard himself roaring, ‘I am a lion.’

  ‘Or a warthog?’

  ‘I am a warthog,’ he grunted.

  ‘Imagine what it is like to be a lion killing a warthog.’ Arthur’s expression was fierce and cruel.

  ‘Or a warthog torn to pieces by a lion?’

  The young lad’s eyes were clouded and full of pain.

  ‘I’m scared, Merlin,’ he confided, on the way back to school.

  ‘Excellent!’ said Merlin cheerfully. ‘That shows how well you are doing. It can be a frightening business living in someone else’s head. It doesn’t matter whose head it is, head of predator or prey, beggar or king, young or old, good, bad or indifferent, black or white. But believe me, Arthur, it’s the only way forward, a man can run to the end of the world and back again, he can explore the outer limits of the universe, but he will never escape from his own head. Unless . . . ’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless he can imagine a way out of it, just as you are learning to do. Remember, Arthur, a man can know everything, and understand nothing. When you understand that, you might learn to understand other people.’ He laid his hand affectionately on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘Who knows? You might even learn to understand yourself.’

  ‘Do you believe in God, Merlin?’ ‘I believe in creation.’

  ‘Who created us?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t have to know. I only know we were created.’

  ‘Why do we die?’

  ‘Because we have to change.’ ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘When our time comes, we return to earth. There, with the rocks and the stones, we learn patience and the mystery of eternal life.’

  ‘You believe in eternal life, then?’

  Merlin gave the question some thought. ‘I believe that the life force is eternal. But everything has a beginning and an end

  – sun, moon, stars, galaxies, black holes, comets, the planet earth which we inhabit, the universe itself. That is the great paradox, Arthur. Nothing survives that does not change.’

  ‘Does God change?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Merlin, laughing. ‘It’s one of your better questions though.’

  ‘It was you who taught me to ask them.’ ‘Don’t ever stop,’ said Merlin.

  Thirteen
>
  2007

  A week before Arthur’s thirteenth birthday, Hector reminded Elizabeth of the promise they made Merlin all those years ago. She stopped knitting. ‘What promise was

  that?’

  ‘We agreed to tell Arthur he’s adopted. We said we’d do it before he was thirteen.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Elizabeth resumed her knitting, clacking the needles noisily.

  Hector would not be put off. ‘We gave our word.’ Another burst of agitated clacking.

  ‘It’s time he knew, Liz.’

  Elizabeth laid down her knitting. ‘He’s our son,’ she insisted obstinately, ‘and that’s all he needs to know.’

  ‘Of course he’s our son. But we adopted him and there’s no use pretending we didn’t. Even if we hadn’t given Merlin our word, it would be wrong not to tell him.’

  Suddenly Keir was in the room. ‘Tell him what?’

  Hector jumped. ‘How many times have I told you not to listen at doors?’

  ‘What is it you have to tell Arthur?’ insisted Keir stubbornly.

  Hector hated to lie but how could he tell him the truth? ‘It’s a private matter – nothing that need concern you. Alright?’

  ‘Fine.’ But Keir was not convinced. Something was going on and he was determined to find out what.

  For the next few hours Elizabeth debated fiercely with her conscience, dropping a few stitches and more than a few tears.

  That afternoon she beckoned Arthur into the kitchen and shut the door.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ she said, bustling about making tea. ‘It’s private.’

  The longer Arthur waited, the more puzzled he became. What was so private that she couldn’t say it in front of dad? Or in front of Keir, for that matter? And why was his mother, normally so efficient, creating such a drama over a simple cup of tea? First she forgot to put the tea bag in the cup, then she knocked over the milk jug. He watched with some anxiety as she stooped to wipe up the milk. Was there something wrong with her? He felt cold and afraid. Whatever it was she had to tell him, he did not want to hear it.