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

by Unknown

  The old envy flared up inside Keir like a flame, consuming him with rage and bitterness. Who admired him, as those bright-eyed students admired Arthur? Who hung on his every word? Who looked at him the way they looked at Arthur? For heaven’s sake, they treated him as if he were a king! It was too much to bear. Was he destined to live in Arthur’s shadow forever? That evening Keir was preoccupied. The merrier Arthur and his friends became, the more morose he was. Once or twice Arthur asked if anything was bothering him but Keir rejected him in his usual surly fashion. Dinner at The Trout was followed by a tour of Oxford’s pubs. By eleven o’clock the party was breaking up, and one by one the friends made their way back to their colleges.

  Back in his rooms Arthur collapsed on his bed. No sooner had he fallen asleep, it seemed, than his mobile was ringing. It was Edward Campbell. ‘Better come quickly.’

  Arthur glanced at his watch. It was two-thirty in the morning. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘He’s only half way up the library, that’s all.’ ‘Who is?’

  ‘Your brother.’

  The sky was partially clouded, lit intermittently by a three- quarter moon. In the deep shadow of the courtyard Arthur and his friends watched, hardly daring to breathe, as a man inched his way up the lower part of the dome that crowned the great rotunda of the library. From time to time the moon appeared, lighting up the circular building. There was no doubt about it – it was Keir.

  ‘He seems to know what he’s doing,’ said Edward. ‘He’s already made it a hundred feet up the North Face, and that’s got to be one of the hairiest climbs in Oxford.’

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening. What about the dome?

  How difficult is it?’

  ‘Steep and slippery. It’s covered in copper sheets.’ Arthur muttered anxiously under his breath.

  ‘How much experience does he have?’ Edward wanted to know.

  Arthur had never seen Keir climb as much as a tree. ‘Not a lot.’

  A keen look. ‘Worried about him?’

  ‘He’ll be okay,’ said Arthur, trying to sound a great deal more confident than he felt.

  ‘Is he sober?’

  Arthur hesitated. ‘More or less.’ At eleven o’clock, when Arthur had left him at his bedroom door, Keir’s speech was slurred.

  A burly, compact figure, followed by a second and a third, appeared out of the darkness. The Proctor’s Bulldogs were famous for aggression, fleetness of foot and tenacity. Once they caught you, they did not let go. ‘Friend of yours, Mr. Hughes?’ The Bulldog nodded towards the dome.

  ‘No,’ responded Arthur, accurately, if misleadingly.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Campbell! What a pleasure seeing you here!

  Steeplejack, is he?’

  ‘Nothing to do with us. He’s not even a member of this place.’

  The Bulldog looked disappointed. For some time Keir had not moved.

  ‘You sure he’s alright?’ whispered Edward Campbell, but when he looked round Arthur was gone.

  The door at the back of the building was unlocked. Arthur rushed into the library and up the stairs two at a time. Reaching the circular gallery, he ran round it to a window on the south side of the building just below where he calculated Keir would be. It was open. He called up. ‘Keir? You OK?’ There was no reply.

  Half in, half out of the window, he peered into the night, and there was Keir, spread-eagled on the dome. Arthur spoke quietly in order not to startle his brother. ‘It’s me, Keir. Arthur. You okay?’

  Once again, no response.

  ‘Come on down,’ said Arthur calmly.

  ‘No.’ Only one word, but enough to know that Keir was very tense. Arthur wiped sweat from his face. If his brother slipped now, he would hurtle off the dome, and there was nothing to stop him until he hit the paving stones below. No one could survive such a fall. He tried again. ‘Move down a little. I’ll grab you and pull you in.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take your time,’ said Arthur reassuringly. ‘You’ll be fine.’ ‘Can’t . . . can’t move.’

  In a sudden flare of moonlight he caught a glimpse of Keir’s face. To his horror, Arthur saw that he was terrified. ‘Hang on, Keir, you’ll be fine.’ He kept his voice calm and confident.

  ‘I’m going to fall!’

  ‘No you’re not. Don’t move.’ If he couldn’t talk his brother down, there was nothing for it, he would have to help him down. ‘I’m coming up to get you.’ Facing into the building, he eased himself through the window and grasped the lintel at the top. He was standing on the sill now, knees braced against the window frame. Reaching up, he began to explore the smooth surface of the dome. High above his head his fingers located a ridge no more than half an inch wide where two sheets of copper were lapped and joined. His fingers and hands would have to bear the weight of his body. Keir must have done it, but his upper body was stronger than Arthur’s. Closing his eyes, Arthur concentrated, preparing his mind for the trial to come. Hooking the tips of his fingers over the tiny ridge he breathed in, tensed his muscles, and lifted his body up and out. For a few seconds he held on, and then could hold no longer. But even as his fingers lost their grip, his toes touched the ledge at the top of the window. He was standing on the lintel.

  Slowly he inched his head to one side, at the same time flattening his body against the dome. To reach Keir he would have to pull himself several feet higher. But how? What if Keir had a panic attack and lost his hold? Best not think about it. If he looked up he could just see Keir’s feet at the extreme limit of his vision. But he dared not move his head again for fear that even the tiniest backward movement would unbalance him and send him crashing to his death. From here the dome looked even steeper than it did from the ground. Despite the cold, sweat dripped from Arthur’s forehead, stinging his eyes. He began to tremble. He was no climber, that was for sure, he didn’t belong here. In a moment the dome would throw him off, and the paving stones would rise up and slam into his body, and he would be dead. In the silence he called out, ‘Merlin!’ There was no reply, no arms to hold him, no voice to comfort him. He was on his own, his own man. He closed his eyes until his head cleared and his limbs stopped shaking.

  Calm, he must be calm. Focus, he must focus his mind as never before. Think only of the next few inches of copper sheet, nothing else mattered. Hands and arms taking the strain, he grasped the ridge and pulled himself up and off the lintel. Scarcely any foothold now. Nothing to stop him falling but the pressure of his toes against the dome and that tiny ridge of overlapping metal above his head that his aching fingers clung to. Directly above, his frightened brother moaned quietly.

  Using his toes and the inside of his knees and thighs as leverage, Arthur pulled himself up inch by inch, the tips of his fingers still locked on the tiny ridge of metal sheet . . . up and up, now his hips were resting on the ridge. He could pull no more. If he tried to push himself up on it, he would thrust his body away from the dome. His only hope was to find the next ridge, yet it took all his nerve to release his hold on the first one. With infinite care he slid first one hand then the other up the surface of the dome. With his arms fully extended, his fingers scrabbled frantically as high as he could reach. There was no ridge. Fear exploded in his chest. His left leg cramped, twisting under him as the muscle spasms wracked his calf. He was going to fall! ‘Merlin!’

  A familiar voice spoke softly in his ear. ‘I am here.’ ‘Is this the end?’

  ‘The power is yours, Arthur.’

  Somehow he found the will to do what only moments before had seemed impossible. Reaching up his right hand another agonising millimetre his scrabbling fingers touched a ridge of metal sheet and hooked over it. The fingers of his left hand found the same ridge, his hips slid fractionally down and away from the first ridge, and the full weight of his body hung by his fingertips. In seconds he would have to let go. He tried to think of anything but the agonising pain in his fingers and the cramp tearing at his leg.

  The cramp eased, both his legs were fu
nctioning again. Bracing his knees, he jammed his toes against the dome for leverage and support, easing the strain on his fingers. One last cautious pull, and the top of his head was no more than a few hands’ breadths from Keir’s feet. Panting, face and neck streaming sweat, he rested his cheek against the cold metal. ‘Listen to me, Keir. I’m just below you . . . directly below. Here’s what you do. You are going to ease down to me very, very slowly, until your feet are resting on my shoulders. I have a good, safe perch here. You’ll be fine. When you’ve done that, I’ll tell you what to do next.’

  ‘Can’t . . . ’ Keir whimpered. ‘Can’t move.’

  ‘Yes you can. You made it up here. You can make it down. When I give you the word, relax your body and let yourself go. Use the toes of your sneakers and the palms of your hands to control your descent. Nice and gently, mind. I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Wait for the word.’

  Keir was in too much of a panic to take in what his brother was saying. Before Arthur had a chance to brace himself, Keir’s feet thumped down on his shoulders, and with them the full weight of his two hundred pound frame. For a second Arthur held on, but then his fingers lost their hold on the second ridge and they were sliding to their death.

  Out in the night he heard someone call, ‘Elbows!’ He dug his elbows into the dome slowing his slide the tiniest fraction. But it was enough, for in that moment his hands located the first ridge, the same ridge he had used to pull himself up from the window. The combined weight of the two men now hung from his fingertips. He would have to let go. Now! Now! Was he directly above the window? If he was they had an outside chance. No time to look down, no time for thought. If he had strayed to one side or misjudged the distance nothing could save them.

  He let go and his toes thumped the lintel above the window frame. It was a reprieve. For how long? The tips of his fingers were bleeding. Agonising pains stabbed his neck and shoulders. He stood on his precarious perch, cheek pressed against the dome, chest heaving, trying to work out his next move. Somehow he would have to find the courage to abandon his toehold on the lintel. But how to get back through the window? Above him he heard a sob of fear.

  Relinquishing his hold on the ridge, he anchored his hands round Keir’s ankles. They were linked now. If he lived, Keir lived; if he died, Keir died. The instant he eased his toes off the lintel he would descend in a free fall. With the dead weight of Keir’s two hundred pounds on his shoulders, he would have to jack-knife his legs inwards at precisely the right instant. If his timing was perfect the momentum would propel him through the open window, and Keir with him. If he made the tiniest miscalculation, they would plunge past the window to the courtyard below.

  Closing his eyes, he prayed, the prayer lasting no more than a few moments in which he hung poised like a trapeze artist midway between life and death. He prayed to the God he imagined, and to the stars and planets and galaxies wheeling in the orderly disorder of the universe, he prayed to all those he loved, to Hector and Elizabeth, to Merlin, Virgil and Robbie, he prayed to the friends he had known, and to the parents he had not. And as if in answer to his prayer, there surged through his body a feeling of such confidence that he knew with complete certainty that Merlin was right – the power was truly his.

  Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath, slipped his toes off the lintel and jack-knifed down. With stunning force he landed on his back, and in that instant of agony his spirit left his body. Standing over him was a black-clad figure and a man in a long white robe. As Merlin shook his head, Death turned away.

  The weight on his chest was suffocating. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the stone floor of the gallery with the unconscious Keir on top of him. So great was the pain that he must surely have broken every bone in his body. Everything hurt, his back, his neck, his legs, his hands, his fingers, his head, even his eyeballs. But what did it matter? He was alive! Gloriously and miraculously alive! He was not a shattered corpse on the paving stones. Dear God, he was alive! Keir stirred. Carefully, painfully, Arthur eased his brother off his chest. The physical relief was enormous; he could breathe freely again. Rolling forward to a kneeling position, he moved first his shoulders, then his back, then his legs, arms and hands; nothing seemed to be broken. It was incredible; he was unhurt, bruised and aching but unhurt. A hand touched his shoulder.

  ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘You nearly had us both killed,’ said Arthur wearily. ‘What were you doing up there?’

  ‘I must have been drunk. I would never have tried it if I’d been sober. I’m not that stupid.’

  In the shadow of the library, Arthur greeted Edward Campbell with a bear hug.

  ‘Thanks for that shout of “elbows”. It was you, wasn’t it?’ ‘You’d have got down without it.’

  Arthur grinned. ‘A lot faster, though.’ ‘You’re a bloody hero.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  Edward offered Keir his hand. ‘That was quite a climb.’ ‘I didn’t make it.’

  ‘You didn’t do the dome but you made it up the façade, and the North Face of the Eiger is one of the toughest climbs in Oxford.’ One by one they shook his hand, looking at him, he could have sworn, in that special way they looked at Arthur.

  Saying goodbye to Arthur the next morning, Keir was ill at ease, fearing his brother might have something to say about the previous night. But in the end, it was not Arthur who said it, it was Keir. ‘You know, don’t you?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘The door at the back of the library was forced, and the window underneath the dome was open. It didn’t take a genius to work it out. You broke into the library and used the stairs . . . then out of the window and onto the dome. You never climbed the North Face.’

  ‘I could have done if I’d been sober.’ ‘That’s not what you said last night.’

  ‘You’re not going to give me away, are you?’ ‘No.’

  Keir smiled sardonically. ‘No, of course not. It would never do to tell the world your brother is a cheat, now would it? It might stain your spotless image.’

  ‘I risked my life for you,’ said Arthur quietly. ‘I never asked you to.’

  The enormity of the rejection silenced Arthur. Turning his back on Keir he walked quickly away. Despite everything Arthur still loved his brother and could not help wondering when and where he would see him again. He sensed that Keir was neither as happy nor as successful as he pretended, and he knew that sometime in the future destiny would bring them together again.

  The next morning Arthur was passing Blackwells on his way to a tutorial, when he was momentarily blinded by a flash of sunlight. For some reason he turned back, and there in the bookshop window was a hologram of Merlin’s head.

  ‘Could you please appear?’

  ‘I have appeared,’ said Merlin. ‘All of you, I mean.’

  ‘No time. Besides, I’m in the Atlantic at the moment.’ ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To congratulate you.’ ‘For what?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Come now, you know very well,’ said Merlin’s talking head. ‘What is braver than overcoming your fears? What is nobler than risking your life for your fellow man?’

  ‘You too, Merlin? You make me sound like some kind of hero. And I’m not. I’m quite ordinary.’

  ‘Is that so? Well let me tell you, young Arthur, you can’t escape your destiny by denying it. You can modify it, you can tweak it a little bit here and there, but you can’t change it. In the end you’ll just have to accept it. When you know who you are, that is.’

  ‘I know exactly who I am,’ protested Arthur.

  ‘Do you? Do I have to remind you of the story of Oedipus? He also thought he knew exactly who he was. It was prophesied that he would kill his father and marry his mother. So what did he do? He escaped to Thebes thinking he could change his destiny by running away from it. And what happened? He ran right into it. He killed his father, Laius, king of Thebes, and he married his mother, Jocasta.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m standing in the street liste
ning to a hologram lecture me on Oedipus. You’re too much, Merlin.’

  ‘Do you acknowledge your destiny?’ Arthur’s jaw set pugnaciously.

  ‘Do you, Arthur? Or are you as stubborn and pig-headed as ever?’ The green eyes glowed.

  ‘Well . . . up there on the dome . . . when I was praying . . . ’ ‘Yes?’

  ‘Something happened . . . I never felt stronger or more confident.’

  ‘Never?’

  Arthur hesitated. ‘Once, perhaps.’

  Merlin’s hologram head beamed happily through the window at his beloved protégé. ‘And when was that?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  The orbs flashed. ‘When was that?’

  ‘When I . . . when I drew the Sword from the Stone.’ ‘Ah, so that was you, was it?’

  A slight hesitation. ‘You know it was.’

  The clouds obscured the sun, and in that moment of transformation Merlin was gone, and Arthur was alone again.

  Twenty Three

  2015

  With his student days behind him the time had come for Arthur to make a decision about his future. What was he to do with his life? Business did not appeal to him, nor did any traditional profession he could think of. Somehow he did not see himself earning a living as an accountant, a lawyer or a doctor. An idealist, the sort of young man who wants to help his fellow men, he toyed with the idea of joining the Red Cross or some organisation that helped the poor and underprivileged in Africa or South America. However that would still leave him somewhat financially dependent on Hector and Elizabeth and he had lived off his parents long enough. It was time to start earning his keep, time to enter that real world Keir was always talking about. Until he finally settled on a career he took a number of short-term jobs – sales assistant in a clothing store, relief postman, hospital porter, waiter in a restaurant. His earnings supported a modest lifestyle, including the rent of a bedsit in South London.