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

by Unknown

  Crossing the drawbridge, Hector, Elizabeth and the two boys passed through a gateway once guarded by a massive iron portcullis. To their right, and far below, was a shingle beach overhung by precipitous cliffs on three sides. The two boys and their father stood looking down the cliffs to the beach where the sea had carved out huge caves. Elizabeth could hardly bear to look. ‘Do be careful,’ she said nervously.

  Hector pointed. ‘You see the biggest cave. There, on the left, where those boulders are.’

  ‘I see it,’ said Keir. ‘That’s Merlin’s cave.’

  Arthur grinned. ‘Quite a coincidence.’

  ‘Ever ask your housemaster where he got his name from?’

  ‘I did once,’ said Arthur. ‘He said he got it from the same place Merlin did.’

  Hector smiled. ‘That’s my Merlin.’

  ‘Was this King Arthur’s castle?’ asked Keir.

  ‘I’m afraid not. These ruins only date back to Norman times. If Arthur lived at all, it was in the sixth century, several hundred years earlier.’

  ‘What do you mean if he lived?’ Arthur seemed surprised. ‘Is

  there any doubt about it?’

  ‘No one seems quite sure. Some scholars think he was a historical figure, some don’t.’

  ‘All the same, wherever you look, there’s something that links this place to Arthurian legend,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I believe he was here. I feel it.’

  ‘Anything is possible,’ said Hector, ‘but I can’t help thinking a lot of these stories were invented for the tourists. The lady at reception assured me that King Arthur’s round table is buried in Bossiney Mound at Bossiney Castle. What’s more, she claims she has actually seen it rising from the mound at full moon! It makes you wonder what else folk round here see at full moon, especially with a few pints inside them.’

  ‘Merlin says King Arthur was a real person,’ said Arthur. ‘Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. One thing for sure, though, a lot of people want to believe he was.’

  ‘That sculpture, or whatever it is – up there, on the highest point,’ said Keir, ‘is that very old?’

  Hector chuckled. ‘The Sword in the Stone? It’s not even as old as you are. I’m told the local Council commissioned it for the millennium, and apparently there was a lot of opposition. After all, there isn’t the slightest evidence connecting this site with Arthur. Still, there it is, large as life. Who wants to take a look?’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I think I’ll walk down to the beach and explore Merlin’s cave.’

  ‘The path looks pretty steep. I’ll come with you,’ said Hector.

  ‘I want to see the Sword in the Stone,’ said Keir.

  Arthur said nothing but he followed Keir. The higher the brothers climbed, the further they could see: to the south-east, Tintagel, and beyond to the bleak hills of Bodmin Moor; to the north-west, the great expanse of the Atlantic ocean; to the north, the steep descent to the beach and Merlin’s cave. Up here the capricious breezes now joined forces, and the wind was so strong that Keir and Arthur were almost tumbled over several times. Progress was slow but at last they reached the flat peak of the headland. The stone on the summit was about six feet square, and on it was set an anvil. Projecting from the anvil was the hilt and a few inches of sword. Three or four kids were playing round the sculpture, climbing onto it and trying to pull out the sword. As one by one they failed the others laughed and jeered. Tiring of their game, they moved off in the direction of the path that led down to the beach, leaving the brothers alone.

  ‘It’s bigger than it looked from down there,’ said Keir. ‘Quite impressive.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Arthur.

  Keir rapped the sculpture. ‘Made of bronze.’ He read the inscription aloud. WHOSO PULLETH OUT THIS SWORD OF THIS STONE AND ANVIL, IS RIGHTWISE KING

  BORN OF ALL ENGLAND. Climbing onto the stone, he grasped the hilt of the Sword and gave it a token tug.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said scornfully. ‘Nothing could shift that.’ But for some reason, even though he knew it was impossible, he could not resist trying again. This time he grasped the sword with both hands and heaved with all his strength, arching his body so that the back of his head almost touched the stone. Moments later he collapsed, groaning. ‘That hurt!’ he muttered, nursing the red weals on the palms of his hands. ‘Stupid. Don’t know what made me do it.’

  Arthur turned away towards the path. Keir slid off the stone. ‘Your turn. Don’t you want to be King of England?’

  Arthur smiled and shook his head. Keir could not resist adding spitefully, ‘Now’s your chance to prove you’re so damned special, like Mum is always saying you are.’

  ‘I don’t have to prove anything,’ said Arthur. Keir had long since lost the power to torment him.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ said Keir, determined to provoke some reaction.

  Arthur found a direct challenge like that hard to resist. Jumping onto the stone, he laid his right hand on the sword’s hilt. After a moment or two he turned to his brother, as if appealing to him.

  ‘Get on with it, man,’ said Keir waving his arms, urging his brother on.

  From the sea the west wind rose suddenly and raged round the headland. Head flung back, his long blond hair streaming in the wind, Arthur held onto the hilt of the sword with both hands to stop himself being blown off the stone.

  As suddenly as it rose, the wind dropped. Tensing the muscles of his right arm, Arthur drew the sword from the anvil. In one swift movement he raised it high above his head, lowered it to kiss the hilt, and slid it back in place. As he did so, a group of tourists appeared over the brow of the hill, a man and woman and three teenage children. They were looking at him oddly. Had they seen anything? Without a backward glance at Keir, Arthur hurried down the path in the direction of the beach.

  For a few moments Keir was so stunned he could barely move. His face deathly pale, his expression half incredulous, half fearful, he followed Arthur like a dog following its master, every few moments erupting in irritable bursts of words, all the time breathing heavily, as much from the shock of what he had just witnessed, as from the jarring pace that Arthur set.

  ‘How did you do it? How did you do it,’ he babbled. ‘Tell me how you did it! It was loose, it must have been, it was loose wasn’t it? It was me that did it. All that pulling loosened it . .

  . Arthur! Answer me! Wait! What happened? You think you can fool me? Well you can’t. I know your tricks. You can’t bear to be ordinary, can you? You want everyone to think you’re something special . . . You’re going to tell Mum and Dad a pack of lies! Well don’t think they’ll believe a word of it, because they won’t . . . Arthur! Listen to me, you little shit! Stop! Stop!

  . . . They won’t believe you, I tell you. I won’t let them. I’ll say you’re a liar . . . I’ll tell them I did it!’

  At a bend in the path below, Arthur stopped and looked up at his adoptive brother. ‘Tell them what you like.’

  Down on the beach, Keir rushed frantically here and there, searching for his parents, determined to get to them first. Arthur wandered about, kicking pebbles disconsolately. At last, Keir caught sight of Hector and Elizabeth in the half light of Merlin’s cave. Long before he reached them, the words were tumbling from his mouth. Hector shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Calm down, son, calm down. Let me get this straight. Who pulled the sword from the stone?’

  ‘I did.’ Keir’s eyes challenged his father.

  A giant wave crashed on the shore, its roar echoing menacingly in the cave. High up in the vaulted roof the wind wailed like a soul trapped in hell.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You pulled the sword from the stone?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘How should I know,’ said Keir sullenly. ‘Thousands of tourists must have tried the same thing. I expect they loosened it.’

  ‘I see.’

  Elizabeth said nothing. When they were out of the cave, a
nd Arthur had joined them, she asked Keir, ‘Do you want to do it for me and dad?’

  Keir blinked. ‘No point in climbing all the way up again.’ ‘We have to climb up anyway. It’s not much of a detour.’ ‘Fine,’ he muttered.

  It was lunchtime and the headland was deserted. The fickle weather had changed and a massive storm was moving in from the Atlantic to the shore, the advancing clouds drawing a black pall over the sunlit ocean. In their shadow the sea was restless now and flecked with white. By the Sword in the Stone they stood facing the wind, hands deep in the pockets of their windcheaters, hair flying.

  ‘Show us how you did it, Keir,’ said Hector. ‘This is silly.’

  ‘Show us.’

  With Hector and Elizabeth watching intently, and Arthur’s attention apparently concentrated on the ground, Keir rolled his large frame onto the Stone, grasped the handles of the sword with both hands and pulled so hard that even in the wind that howled round him, the sweat ran down his face. After a few seconds he gave up and looked out to sea with blank eyes. Seizing the hilt of the sword once more, he heaved, this time with the full weight of his body behind his arms, lying back almost parallel with the stone. A third time he pulled, so fiercely that the veins on his neck stood out, and it seemed as if his arms must surely be torn out of their sockets. But for all his efforts, the sword held firm in the anvil, moving not even the tiniest fraction of an inch. Finally his strength deserted him, his arms went limp, and releasing the sword with a groan, he folded to his knees. He was so exhausted that for a full minute he remained there crouched by the anvil, his damp forehead resting on the cold stone. Wincing with pain, he eased open his hands. The palms were flecked with blood. ‘It was a freak, that’s all,’ he muttered. ‘One of those things.’ His eyes shifted nervously from one to the other. ‘It won’t move now. But it did.’ Elizabeth turned away, Hector looked uncomfortable. ‘It moved, I tell you,’ protested Keir, ‘it came right out.’

  Seeing they did not believe him, he appealed to his brother. ‘Tell them, Arthur.’

  Arthur was silent.

  Elizabeth dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her windcheater and shivered. ‘It’s cold, and it’s going to pour with rain.’ She walked quickly away. A few seconds later Keir followed her. Hector did not move. Nor did Arthur.

  ‘Well, Arthur?’ No reply.

  ‘Tell me what really happened,’ said Hector.

  Arthur touched the scar on his cheek. ‘Let’s go, Dad.’

  Hector had no intention of going anywhere – not until he had learned the truth. ‘Did someone pull the Sword out?’

  Arthur shifted uneasily. ‘Please, Dad, let’s go.’

  ‘I’d like to see you try it first.’ Hector pointed at the Sword.

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  For a long moment father and son looked at each other. ‘Coming then?’ said Arthur brightly.

  Hector shook his head. ‘I’m not moving from this spot.’ ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’

  ‘What if I do?’ said Hector, folding his arms.

  It was a battle of wills, each knowing how stubborn the other could be. In the end it was Arthur who gave in. Jumping onto the stone, he set his hand on the Sword. Grunting and puffing, he made a show of straining to pull it out. ‘There,’ he said. ‘It won’t budge.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You saw me trying to pull it out.’

  ‘I saw you trying not to,’ said his father.

  Arthur said innocently, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ ‘You never lied to me before.’

  The sea was calm now, the wind had dropped. Storm clouds hung low over the ocean, their long fingers reaching down to the water. Soon the rain would come. Arthur laid his right hand on the hilt of the sword and gently drew it out. For a moment he held it high above his head, and then, as if embarrassed by what he had done, quickly replaced it. Turning, he found himself alone, Hector was nowhere to be seen. A myriad stars and galaxies glowed in the arched canopy of the night sky, but as he looked down, there far below him, it was day. The Atlantic waves rolled green and grey in the rapidly shifting light, as the rays of the afternoon sun, filtering through the clouds, swept the surface of the ocean. Everything about him was quiet and still. He was afraid. He wanted to call out in the hope someone might respond but he did not, knowing there was no one there. Standing in the dark night on the summit of this bleak outcrop of land, he felt uncannily alone, as if he were the only one left alive on the planet. Never before had he felt such dread, nor so profound a sense of isolation.

  But then, on the mainland side of the promontory the light of a candle gleamed, and then another and another, until soon a seemingly endless procession of candles wound its way down the precipitous wooden stairway and across the causeway. As the column of lights approached, it disappeared now and then behind dark masses of cliff face. Slowly, unhurriedly, it wound its way on and up towards the headland where Arthur stood by the Sword in the Stone.

  His mouth dry, a pulse hammered the back of his throat as the ghostly procession of candles approached. As the first candle passed through the castle gateway, he caught the glint of armour and heard the tramp of marching men. These were no ordinary footsteps, for the harsh and fearsome sound that echoed louder and louder in the courtyard of the ancient castle was the clash of metal-clad feet on flagstones.

  As the first knight came into view, Arthur saw that he was covered from head to foot in glistening armour, his face concealed by a lowered visor. Ignoring Arthur, he went straight to the stone, poured a drop of hot wax, and stood his lighted candle on it. Laying both his mail-clad hands on the sword’s hilt, he pulled with all his strength. The sword did not move. Turning to Arthur, he raised his mailed fist in salute, then taking up his candle, walked on, making way for the next knight, who did exactly the same as the first. One by one, the knights tried to pull the Sword from the anvil, and one by one they failed. As each knight saluted Arthur, picked up his candle and left the headland, another took his place. A moving necklace of lights encircled the cliff tops beginning at the top of the stairway on the land side of the promontory, down the stairs to the causeway, up the cliff face, through the gateway of the castle to the Sword in the Stone, descending by the path to the beach, where finally, in Merlin’s cave, the last candle disappeared from view.

  ‘Arthur! Where are you? Wait for me!’ But Arthur was nowhere to be seen, and Hector was standing alone by the sculpture. Had Arthur really drawn the sword from the anvil?

  If he had, there must surely be some rational explanation for it. Hector was a powerful man, broadly built and muscular, fit and strong for his age. He climbed onto the stone. Laying his hands on the sword’s hilt, he tensed every muscle in his body, from the tips of his fingers, through his hands and arms and shoulders, down into his chest and stomach and thighs to the soles of his feet. Concentrating all his strength and all his will, he leaned back and pulled, his face contorting with the strain. The sword would not budge.

  For a few moments he relaxed, breathing deeply, feeling the power flow back into his muscles. Setting his knees against the anvil, he pulled a second time. Again he pulled, and again, and yet again, until the veins jutted from his neck like cables. The muscles in his arms and legs and back ached. His hands burned like fire. The sword remained firm and immovable, nothing could shift it.

  Looking about him, Hector saw that the sky was clear again. The storm clouds had vanished, and yet there was no wind to blow them away. He heard Merlin’s voice, heard it as clearly as if he were standing next to him. ‘The clouds will always part for Arthur.’ Suddenly he understood that this was the second sign prophesied by Merlin. Thoughtfully he set off after his adopted son.

  Near the bottom of the second flight of steps, a man in an official looking cap and uniform stopped the Hughes family, first Elizabeth and Keir, then Arthur, then Hector. He was polite but insistent; they were to follow him to the office to talk to his boss, it would not take long but there was a matt
er that had to be cleared up. In the cramped room, the two boys and Hector stood in line with the man in uniform, Elizabeth sitting on one of the only two chairs. Behind a grey vinyl-topped desk covered with cigarette burns sat the man introduced as the boss.

  ‘What’s up, Bill?’

  Bill intoned without emotion. ‘These people interfered with the sculpture – The Sword in the Stone.’ ‘Evidence?’ the boss demanded. ‘They was reported,’ said Bill.

  ‘Who reported them?’

  ‘A family. They ’ad to go, but I got their name and address.’ Bill laid a scrap of paper in front of his boss. ‘That’s it there. Three kids and two adults. Quite disgusted the parents was. Yobbo behaviour they called it. Said it was one of these two youngsters did it.’ He nodded in the direction of Keir and Arthur. ‘One of ’em pulled the Sword right out of the anvil and waved it in the air. Must ’ave damaged the sculpture. Act of vandalism.’

  The boss leaned back in his chair and pressed the palms of his hands together. ‘Pulled the sword out and waved it in the air?’

  Bill nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Without even glancing at it, the boss screwed up the scrap of paper on his desk. ‘Checked the sculpture have you?’ he enquired.

  ‘’Ad to stop this lot, didn’t I? ’Aven’t ’ad time to check it, ’ave I? But I will. I’ll check it now, if you like.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ ‘Why not?’ said Bill.

  ‘Because,’ said the boss, emphasising his words, ‘those people did not see what they thought they saw.’

  Bill scratched his head. ‘They was categoric.’ He jerked his thumb at Arthur and Keir. ‘One of them lads pulled the sword out.’

  The boss shook his head. ‘There’s not a man alive could do that.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because there’s no sword to pull out,’ said his boss triumphantly. ‘You can’t pull out what isn’t there, now can you?’ His steep brows challenged anyone to contradict him.