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

by Unknown

  Despite the world’s scepticism, the story could not be disproved. Sanctions were debated in the UN after a peace- keeping initiative was voted down by the Security Council, but even on this topic no agreement was reached. A few countries offered the surviving victims humanitarian aid which was immediately refused by the K.O.E.. There were the customary vehement protests by Human Rights groups, and soon the world had forgotten what had happened. But not Arthur. ‘The man is literally getting away with murder. Mass murder.’

  George Bedivere heaved his big shoulders in embarrassment.

  ‘And we sit back and do nothing?’ Surely George would stand by him? ‘It can’t be right.’

  Bedivere shrugged. ‘What can we do? Let’s face it, the UK is not a world power anymore. Hasn’t been for years. Our armed forces have been cut to the bone by successive governments. There’s no way we can go it alone. Not even the Yanks can do that. They stopped being the world’s policemen after the Iraq debacle. No more foreign adventures for them, no more talk of bringing democracy to the world. They’ll only act if they feel their vital interests are threatened.’

  ‘Surely that’s the case here?’ said Arthur. ‘You do see that, George, don’t you?’ He was pleading with his Defence Minister.

  George Bedivere’s massive chin jutted obstinately. ‘What I see is what I’m paid to see. Oil is losing its strategic importance as an energy source. No, I’m sorry, Arthur, there’s no vital interest involved. Not for the U.S., not for us.’

  From the window of the Prime Minister’s office Arthur looked out at Downing Street. A couple of fat pigeons pecked here and there, some tourists peered curiously through the wrought iron gates that separated the street from Whitehall, a policeman stood outside Number 10, hands clasped behind him in the manner of a prince or a clergyman; a tranquil, reassuring scene, a scene familiar to every Londoner, a vignette of a peaceful and secure way of life that people took for granted because they lived in a democracy.

  ‘A hundred thousand men, women and children brutally massacred. Not in our vital interest, George?’

  George studied the carpet. ‘I’m afraid not, Prime Minister.’ ‘Then God help the human race.’

  Arthur tried to dismiss the horror from his mind but he could not. The satellite images of the victims were still fresh in his memory. He doubted they would ever fade.

  Two

  2025

  Across the fields the two men strode, Arthur breaking into a run every few yards to catch up with Merlin who set so fast a pace that his white robe trailed behind him, as if it too had difficulty keeping up.

  Virgil clutched his master’s shoulder anxiously. A moment before the wind had gusted so strongly that it hurled the owl backwards off his perch in a whirling ball of flying feathers. In that moment of panic he flapped his wings frantically in order to gain height, all the time shrieking his rage. When the wind dropped as suddenly as it rose, he settled again on Merlin’s shoulder, grumbling in the back of his throat.

  ‘Alright, old chap?’ Merlin soothed the owl’s ruffled feathers, and Virgil nibbled his master’s fingers to show how much he appreciated his concern.

  Yesterday Arthur had presided over a meeting of the cabinet called to discuss London’s readiness, or otherwise, for a possible major terrorist attack. There had been a lot of talk and no decisions, except to leave things as they were. The status quo was agreed by a show of hands, even though Arthur had made it clear that for him, at least, the status quo was entirely inadequate. Angry and disheartened, he had been only too glad to accept Merlin’s sudden invitation to stay overnight at his cottage on ‘important business’. As an ex-Special Forces man it had not been too difficult for Arthur to throw off his body-guards. A call to his PPS from the car reassured him that the PM was away on an ‘urgent personal matter’, and would be back in Downing Street the next afternoon. A high speed drive to Somerset was followed by a light supper in Merlin’s kitchen, a game of Monopoly and a good night’s sleep. The two men were up at dawn and off on a trip to only Merlin knew where. Arthur asked no questions, though he had his suspicions.

  It all appealed to his sense of the absurd. Here was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom stumbling across the countryside, chasing after a wild figure with shoulder-length hair, flowing robes and a furious barn owl on his shoulder.

  ‘How much further?’ panted Arthur. A grunt. ‘Not far.’

  Arthur knew better than to waste breath asking any more questions. The instant they reached the stream bordering the wood, the gusting wind calmed. Merlin sat on the grass by the water’s edge, signalling Arthur to join him. Virgil flew into an oak tree and settled himself down, his eyelids blinking, rapidly at first, then slower and slower, until finally his black eyes were shuttered. Seconds later he opened one enquiring eye to check that Merlin was still there. Reassured, he ruffled his feathers, inflating his body to twice its normal size, and drifted into sleep, deflating as he did.

  In the stream a few sleepy fish moved with the ebb and flow of the water. Two or three of them gently nuzzled Arthur’s hand.

  ‘The salmon is an extraordinary fish,’ Merlin mused inconsequently, ‘all that swimming against the current, all that battling against the odds. Is he not much to be admired? A noble creature, independent of spirit, brimful of courage’ A sly look at Arthur. ‘Why does he swim against the stream, negotiating rapids, climbing cataracts, leaping falls, when it would be so much easier to go with the flow?’ A wondering shake of the head. ‘Is it his destiny? Has he perhaps been specially chosen to save his race from extinction? It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  Arthur said nothing, though Merlin’s meaning was by no means lost on him.

  ‘In everyone’s life,’ continued the magus, looking everywhere but at Arthur, ‘there comes a defining moment, a moment when they must choose between the easy solution and the difficult one. The moment passes quickly, so quickly that most people miss it, either because they are too short-sighted to recognise it for what it is, or because they recognise it and are afraid to do anything about it.’

  For a few moments neither man spoke. Something made Arthur look up, and there through the trees was the great mound of Glastonbury Tor with St. Michael’s tower on its summit. The hairs rose on the back of Arthur’s neck. His spine tingled.

  ‘Years ago when you were a boy we climbed the Tor, you and I,’ Merlin reminded him.

  ‘I remember.’ Arthur was lost in the green moons now, hearing nothing but Merlin’s voice, seeing only the images he conjured up.

  ‘What do you see?’ asked the magus.

  Arthur stared into the distance. ‘I see two figures on the summit.’

  ‘Who are they, Arthur?’

  Arthur shielded his eyes from the early morning sun. ‘A man and a boy. That’s odd. Before when I looked . . . ’

  The magus prompted him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘ . . . it was all a blur . . . like a picture in two dimensions, one too far away, the other too close.’ Arthur peered through cupped hands as though he were looking through a telescope.

  ‘And now?’ asked Merlin.

  ‘The two images are in focus,’ said Arthur excitedly. ‘Time past and time future have merged, then?’ ‘Yes.’

  The magus gave a long, satisfied sigh. ‘They are now time present.’

  ‘Yes.’ Arthur lowered his hands. He was looking at the magus now.

  ‘So the man . . . ?’

  ‘Was you, Merlin . . . will be you . . . is you.’ ‘And the boy?’

  For a long moment Arthur hesitated. ‘The boy is me.’

  The eyes of the magus glowed with a sudden blinding light. When the light died, Arthur was himself again. Beside him sat Merlin, chin on chest, snoring like a warthog. His body relaxed, his mind at peace, Arthur was filled with the joy of living. The stream shimmered in the dappled sunlight, the warmth of the sun caressed his face, the soft rush of the wind stirred the trees.

  After lunch the two men sat quietly and peered into th
e kitchen fire. Merlin had withdrawn into his head, leaving Arthur to reminisce about the past; his thoughts drifted back to his childhood and to those high summer days at Ponterlally when he and Keir would sit for hours on the riverbank by the stone bridge.

  ‘There are bigger fish for you to catch,’ said Merlin suddenly, apropos of nothing.

  Silence broken only by the crackling of burning logs.

  Then Merlin began to speak, conjuring up images of things beyond the borders of belief. Yet extraordinary as they were, Arthur had the feeling they were real, and that in some other place, some other time, he had seen them all before . . . Eclipse and Kraken, Nimbles and Scuttles, rectangles and squares, pyramids and spheres, slender towers waving at the heavens, all on a shining white island set in a grey green sea. When exactly he had seen these things he could not remember, though he guessed it must have been before time past and future merged into time present.

  ‘The time for dreaming is over,’ said Merlin. ‘And the time for doubt has passed.’

  ‘You have been my friend and mentor since I was a child.

  Don’t desert me now,’ begged Arthur.

  ‘I shall never desert you,’ said Merlin. He stared into the fire.

  ‘But you are the one who must bear the burden.’ ‘If I should fail?’

  ‘Fail!’ Merlin smoothed the air with his hands as if to erase the word. ‘Why talk of failure? Remember, you will have more power than the world has ever known, the power you need to fight the forces of darkness. Imagine, Arthur.’

  For a moment Arthur’s eyes dreamed, as they used to when he was a boy. But then, like those two figures on the Tor, the dream and the reality became one, and it was as if a door had opened and he had walked through it and entered the world of his imaginings.

  ‘Imagine aman,’ said Merlin,‘amanwholivedmany centuries ago. This man is the only one on the planet to possess, let us say, a sword, a sword so magical that it made him invulnerable. Imagine that, Arthur. Such a man would have the power to save the world, would he not?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Arthur uncertainly.

  ‘A gentle man,’ continued Merlin, ‘a man of conscience with a heart and a soul, a man of peace who against his will becomes a man of war, compelled to impose order on chaos, doing it reluctantly, only because he believes there is no other way.’ He looked intently at Arthur. ‘Someone once said that the meek would inherit the earth, but only if the strong helped them do it.’

  ‘I am trying to remember,’ said Arthur. ‘When was it?’ His eyes clouded as he roamed his memory. ‘It was on Glastonbury Tor. I was eleven years old, and . . . yes, I remember now. It was you who said it, and you were talking about King Arthur.’

  ‘I was talking about you,’ said the magus.

  In the long silence that followed everything became clear to Arthur, all the things that he had known or almost known but had never allowed to enter his conscious mind. Above all he understood that he had been given the choice to accept or reject his destiny. Now at last he knew what Merlin meant by that word. Destiny was not a trap set by a malign fate for a man to fall into; it was the product of all the choices he made in his life.

  As the flames of the kitchen fire died down, Merlin put Arthur into a deep sleep. At first it seemed to him that he was entering the world of his dreams, as he had so often done when he was a boy. Yet in his sleep he understood that these were not dreams but reality, the reality of his own future. He saw great battles in the sky and on the sea, he saw the destruction of evil and the death of tyrants, he saw the wicked perish and the good prosper. And he saw himself seated at a round table surrounded by friends and comrades some of whom he knew, some whom he would know in the future – proud Lancelot and noble Galahad, Ian Duncan, George Bedivere and Leo Grant, Gawain, Agravaine, Gaheris, Mordred and Gareth. He saw acts of love and hate, acts of meanness and generosity, acts of friendship and acts of treachery. He saw the first battle and the last.

  When he awoke he felt overwhelmed by the responsibility of it all. Merlin was right, it was his burden and his alone. Was he strong enough to bear it? His fingers touched the scar where the eagle’s talons had slashed his cheek when he was a boy.

  ‘We are all flawed,’ said Merlin, ‘none of us is perfect. Nothing is in this universe. If there were such a thing as perfection, the universe would be symmetrical. But if it were, if matter and anti-matter were perfectly balanced, there would be no matter, only energy, and we would not be here, we would not be anywhere. Now there’s a mystery for you. We owe our very existence to the imperfection of the universe.’

  Suddenly Arthur knew that everything in his life had led him to this moment. ‘When the time comes, if it comes, will you be with me? On Camelot, I mean.’

  ‘If she will let me,’ said Merlin wistfully. Arthur could not hide his astonishment. ‘Who? ‘Nimue. The one who casts a spell on me.’

  Arthur remembered now that Merlin had mentioned her before. Could Merlin be playing one of his games? No. One look at his face told Arthur this was no joke. He was concerned for his friend and wanted to know more. Wherever Merlin was in the byways of his mind he read Arthur’s thoughts. ‘We met at university,’ he said. ‘We fell in love. For a time we lived together. Then one day she left me.’

  ‘So it’s all over,’ said Arthur.

  Merlin shook his head. ‘It will never be over,’ he said. ‘Nimue’s passion is devouring. It is less about love than about possessing. She wants to shut me in a cave and roll a stone over me so that I will be hers forever.’

  ‘Then she must be very stupid.’ ‘Why so?’

  ‘To imagine she can trap the magus.’

  Merlin smiled. ‘You have a great deal to learn about women.’

  When it was time to drive back to London, Arthur said goodbye to Merlin who handed him a small urn. ‘A long time ago I made a promise,’ he said. ‘Now it is you who must keep it for me. I told you once that the island of Camelot was given to me not for any material thing, but for love. In this urn are the ashes of Robbie, beloved by the Lord of Camelot, and in turn by you and me. Robbie is dead, but love never dies. When you bury his ashes on the island it will be a sign that Camelot is founded on honour and respect, on justice and mercy, and on love, Arthur, above all, on love. These are the principles by which you and your followers must live. Abandon them and you will lose your power, and Camelot will be doomed. Hold fast to them, and you might even save the world.’

  ‘I shall try not to disappoint you.’

  ‘You will never do that, not if you remember the meaning of Pendragon.’

  Arthur’s face was blank. ‘You don’t know?’

  Arthur shook his head. For some reason he could not explain, his heart was beating fast.

  ‘Hmm. A serious gap in your knowledge,’ said Merlin, looking suspiciously pleased, happy to have found something that he could still teach his protégé. ‘Hundreds of years ago the word “pen” meant a chief, and the word “dragon”, a leader. So there you are, Arthur. It is in the blood. You were born to be a leader of men.’

  ‘How shall I know?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘There is a legend that the Round Table appears at the full moon,’ said the magus.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Bossiney Castle.’

  Arthur was trying to puzzle out that conundrum when, much to his embarrassment, Merlin dropped on one knee and kissed his hand. ‘I have served you as best I could,’ he said humbly. ‘The rest is up to you.’

  Three

  2025

  Arthur passed a few hours in Ponterlally with Hector and Elizabeth and tried to pretend it was just like any other visit. But Elizabeth knew better. Her beloved son was not his usual cheerful self, and something about the way he looked at her had the feel of goodbye about it. ‘When shall I see you again,’ she asked, trying not to sound anxious.

  ‘As soon as I possibly can,’ said Arthur cheerfully, wishing he could tell her more. The truth was that he did not know himself when, if ever, the
y would meet again. ‘Don’t worry mother, We’ll talk regularly.’

  None of this made sense to Hector. He knew what was in Elizabeth’s mind but she had got it all wrong. Arthur was not going anywhere. How could he? Was he not the Prime Minister?

  Arthur had not met Keir since that traumatic night climb at Oxford. It was time, he decided, to pay him a visit. Nothing had changed; he was still the same old Keir, still living alone, still alternately defensive and aggressive, still expecting imminently, or so he insisted, to be appointed a director of the internet provider he had worked for since leaving school, still – and this was hardest of all to take – still jealous and esentful of Arthur. After only a few minutes awkward conversation Arthur was wondering why he was there. Was it nostalgia for his childhood? Was it guilt? Could it be, despite everything, affection? Whatever the reason, he was reluctant to lose touch with Keir, though he had nothing to offer him; not yet. But all hints that Arthur might wish Keir to join him at some time in the not too distant future were scorned. ‘You’ll have to come up with something more concrete than that, my dear chap. Something bloody attractive too. This is Keir you’re talking to. I’m a highly saleable commodity in the city. Everyone in the world wants me.’

  When he said goodbye, Arthur tried to hug his adoptive brother. It was like trying to hug a wooden board.

  If Igraine registered Arthur’s hints that he might not be around for a while, she did not respond to them, being far too pre-occupied with her own problems; in a short space of time she had lost her husband and her eldest daughter, and poor Morgan had ended up in what Igraine referred to as a ‘sanatorium’, though she and everyone else knew that it was really a secure psychiatric ward. Arthur, whom she once so dearly loved, she now held responsible for the death of her husband. Uther’s lies, his hypocrisy, his cheating, his fraudulent activities, his chronic adultery were all forgotten. Igraine had sanitised his memory, loving him in death far more than she had ever done in life.