End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  “Look,” she said, stabbing a finger at the guy, “whatever else went on, I'm positive I didn't tell you it was okay to stick your tongue in my goddamned ear.”

  Now two of the guys friends were at his sides, the younger ones. Alice wasn't sure where the older guy had got off to.

  “What, is she Canadian or something?” one of the guys said.

  “American,” Alice said. “Got a problem with that?”

  The other guy nodded appreciatively, and leered. “I feel a bit peckish for American, myself. Sometimes you feel like a curry, and sometimes like a burger, am I right?”

  “Like you'd ever have a chance with an Asian bird, you wanker,” the first guy said.

  “Hey, I was only saying,” said the leering guy, his feelings clearly bruised.

  “Shut it, you two,” said orange-shirt-blue-tie, sopping wet. “Now look, this shirt cost me fifty quid, you dozy cow, and it's dry-clean only. So you'll be buying me a new one, I think.” He held out his hand, palm up, and glowered at her.

  “Hey,” Alice held up her hands, defensively, “I don't remember inviting you to come grope me, all right? Besides, any moron who pays that much for such a godawful ugly shirt deserves whatever he gets.”

  The guy's two friends chuckled at that, but orange-shirt-blue-tie wasn't so amused. “You bitch!” he said, and launched himself at her, his hands out and grasping. Apparently he took his wardrobe very seriously. Or didn't like being called a moron. Or both, for that matter.

  Alice had been in three fights before: once with Nancy, who had been seventeen to her fifteen; once with a Latina girl her own age outside a nightclub in East Austin; and once with an boy a year or two younger than her in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. All of them had been when Alice was between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, when she hung out with Nancy and her friends. The fight with Nancy had ended up a draw, and they'd just had another rum and generic cola and laughed about it; the fight with the Latina girl had ended with the girl pulling a knife and Alice turning and running away as fast as her legs would carry her; and the fight with the kid in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven had ended in a resounding victory for Alice, but only because the kid tripped over his own skateboard and sprained his ankle. Still, that's what he got for calling Alice crazy and Nancy a slut; whether either was a true statement or not was beside the point.

  Therefore, Alice didn't have a terrific track record when it came to physical altercations. She had one loss, one win, and one tie. And considering that her one win had been against a pimply kid four inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than her, Alice wasn't liking her chances against orange-shirt-blue-tie, who towered over her and easily outweighed her by eighty pounds. She'd have turned and run, but she had her back to the wall and didn't see any way out.

  Then, just before the guy closed the distance between them, a woman appeared out of nowhere. She was wearing a black leather jacket, black skirt over tights, and boots, with her blonde hair in a bob. As the guy plummeted forward, she handily took hold of his left arm in both her hands, shifted her weight to one side while turning, and then sent the guy flipping over her back in some sort of judo move, to land headfirst on the floor a few feet off with an audible thump.

  “Right,” the woman said, dusting her hands and turning to face the two other guys. “How's about you pick up your friend there before he gets himself hurt, and you lot go and find someone else to bother for the rest of the night, eh?”

  The two guys exchanged uneasy glances, shrugged, and then helped their moaning friend to his feet. For a second it looked like they were going to start more trouble, but the woman just gave them a withering smile, and they were on their way out the door.

  The woman turned around and faced Alice. “You all right, girl?”

  Alice nodded but wasn't sure.

  “How about I buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it?” The woman slid onto the stool that orange-shirt-blue-tie had just vacated. “Don't worry, sweetie, I'm not trying to pick you up. Just being friendly.”

  Alice was always a little out of it after one of her visions, but she was usually back in her right mind after this much time had passed. Still, as near as she could tell, the woman had just appeared out of nowhere.

  “What's your name?” the woman asked, as Alice climbed back onto the stool.

  “Alice.”

  The woman grinned and stuck out her hand. “My name's Roxanne.”

  IN THE END, five of the captains elected to accompany Artor on his journey. Lugh the Gael, called Long Hand; Bedwyr of Demetia; tall Caius; and the brothers Pryder and Gwrol, who Galaad learned were in fact the twins they appeared.

  With Artor and Galaad, whom the High King insisted accompany them, they were seven in all. As the captains disbanded, Caradog given the task of governing in Artor's absence, the seven set about preparing themselves for their imminent departure.

  Galaad, who had carried on his back from Powys all of his earthly possessions, spent the remainder of the day and night in his rooms, trying to recover some of the rest which he had missed in the long days of his recent journey. That evening he ate a hearty meal with the servants in the kitchen, while from the main dining room the sounds of Artor and his captains were much subdued since the previous night. Galaad repaired to his room early and slept somewhat fitfully, though thankfully free of nightmare or vision, and in the morning rose before dawn and dressed himself.

  As the sun was just rising in the east, Galaad found Artor and his captains down on the quayside, loading their provisions onto a boat. It was a captured Saeson longship, a Snekke measuring some fifty feet from stem to stern, eight feet from port to starboard, outfitted with both sails and oars. At its prow was a carved dragon's head.

  “How do you like it?” Caius asked in Latin, as Galaad drew near, his breath fogging white in the chill morning air. “Artor calls it Pryd Gwyn. On account of the sails.”

  “White Aspect,” Galaad repeated, nodding. It seemed a good omen, considering that the boat was to carry them to find another white form.

  “These are the last of the supplies,” Caius explained, indicating the bundles stacked on the quay, “and with them loaded we'll be ready to depart.”

  Galaad looked over the assembled gear, which included clothing, victuals, supplies, saddles, and tack, and self-consciously tightened his hold on the meager bundle in his arms.

  “By midday we'll reach the mouth of the Tamesa River, and then we'll be at sea and gone.” Caius seemed excited, eager to be on their way. He was one of the first to nod his ascent to Artor's words the day before and seemed genuine in his desire to pursue an adventure. Still, with his too-easy smile, Galaad found himself reluctant to trust him unreservedly.

  “Ach, I'd forgotten what it was like to wake up to your damned sunny disposition,” Lugh said, coming up the quay, a pack slung on his back. He shivered in the cold. “Ten years that grinning visage greeted me every dawn,” he explained to Galaad, “and every day of those ten years I was tempted to wipe that smile off with the back of my hand.”

  “You could always try, friend,” Caius said, still grinning, “but you should remember that teeth don't only smile. They also bite.” To punctuate his words, Caius snapped his jaws together, with an audible click, like a dog snapping at a fleeing hare.

  Lugh made a disagreeable sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan, and then vaulted the side of the longship. On board, he dropped his pack unceremoniously onto the deck, stretched out upon the planks with the pack serving as head pillow, and, crossing his arms over his chest, closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get somewhere interesting,” he said, and then fell silent. Within moments, he was snoring gently.

  “He's a noisome creature with breath that could stun an ox,” Caius said, “but he has a true heart, and a specialized attack that few swordsmen can withstand. You'd do well to keep in his good graces.”

  Galaad nodded, looking from Caius to the now sleeping Gael.

  “Have you a sword,
by the by?” Caius asked.

  “Well, I…” Galaad shifted the bundle in his arms, his grandfather's grandfather's leaf blade tucked safely inside. Having seen proper swords at the sides of Artor and his captains, Galaad was self-conscious of the shabby state of his own blade. “That is…”

  Before Galaad could say more, the brothers from Gwent appeared on the scene, arguing loudly. Auburn-haired Pryder apparently took issue with the decisions that blond-haired Gwrol had made regarding their provisions, from the sound of it.

  “What if we run aground?” Pryder asked, pressing the point. “In some remote stone promontory, unable to return to land. Do you honestly expect to survive on wine alone?”

  “I get thirsty,” Gwrol answered with a shrug. “I thought it better to bring a few more skins of wine along, instead of sacks of grain which will only swell with water and weigh us down needlessly.”

  “Weigh us down…needlessly?!” Pryder sputtered, disbelieving. “And if we run out of bread, what will you say then about ‘need’ and ‘needless’?”

  Gwrol hoisted the string of wineskins higher on his shoulder. “In that case, brother, I think I'll just have another drink.”

  Caius chuckled, and leaning over to Galaad whispered behind his hand. “Their parents judged well when they christened Pryder, whose name means ‘Care.’”

  “Yes,” Gwrol said proudly, overhearing, “and they were right to name me ‘Courage.’”

  “If by that,” Pryder put in, “you mean the type of courage found in the grape, then yes. Oh wait.” He slapped his forehead, miming sudden realization. “Perhaps they better ought to have named you ‘Consumptive.’”

  Gwrol scowled, but in good humor, and the brothers shifted their gear on board.

  “They fight like a cat and dog,” Caius said, “their temperaments as different as their faces are alike. But woe betide anyone who criticizes one of them in the hearing of the other. They attack each other endlessly but will meet any attack from the outside with iron in their fists.”

  Galaad helped Caius move what remained of the gear onto the boat, though he trembled when he regarded the saddle and tack. He considered it an unexpected stroke of fortune that Artor had chosen to travel to Dumnonia by boat, and not overland, for fear that he'd be left behind when he refused to once more go on horseback.

  If Caius noticed that Galaad was loathe to lay hands on any of the horse tack, he made no mention of it, but hoisted each item up and into the boat, where the brothers from Gwent helped secure them on board.

  The quay was nearly cleared when Artor arrived, with him Caradog and Bedwyr. The High King wore his red cloak flung back over his shoulder, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his spatha at his side, his step easy and light. A faint smile played around the corners of Artor's mouth, which was echoed on Bedwyr's face but which found no semblance on that of the chief counselor.

  “I still oppose this fool's notion with my every fiber,” Caradog said, as the trio drew near.

  “Of course you do,” Artor said with a smile. “That's why you're my chief counsel, and that's why I'm leaving the island in your charge.”

  Caradog snorted, an undignified sound. “Better for me that I was less reliable, then.”

  “It's your curse, I'm afraid,” Artor said, clapping him on the back. “Be well, old friend. And don't worry, we'll be back soon.”

  Caradog made a noncommittal sound, but managed a weak smile. Still, there was something in his look that suggested mourning, and it occurred to Galaad that Caradog had the look of someone saying a final farewell over a gravesite, not one wishing a departing traveler well.

  Artor vaulted on board handily, with little seeming effort.

  “Well, farewell,” Bedwyr said, offering Caradog his hand. “I'm sorry you'll not be with us.”

  Caradog took the Demetian's proffered hand and held onto it. He pulled Bedwyr close, and in a voice pitched low enough that Galaad could barely hear, said, “You watch out for him, do you hear me? I have black thoughts that he won't be sailing back this way again.”

  Bedwyr blanched and breathed out a cloud of white into the cold morning air, unspeaking. Then he tugged his hand back and forced a smile. “You worry too much, old man,” he said, his words coated with a thin veneer of humor. Then his smile slowly began to fade. “Don't worry. I'll be at his back, whatever comes.”

  The old chief counselor considered the Demetian's words and slowly nodded. “Be well, Bedwyr.”

  With that, Caradog gave a curt wave to those already on board, turned on his heel, and walked back up the quay.

  “Come along,” Caius called to Galaad, hoisting the last of the bundles of victuals on board and then jumping over the railing. “Let's be off, or would you rather stay behind?”

  Casting a last glance back at Caer Llundain, the city he'd dreamt of all of his life and only just glimpsed in these last two days, Galaad tossed his small bundle up to Caius, and then climbed aboard.

  Bedwyr untied the longship from its moorings, and then the seven were under way, their journey begun.

  By midday, they'd reached the mouth of the Tamesa, with Bedwyr and Caius pulling on the oars on the port side, Gwrol and Pryder pulling on the starboard, and once they were past the estuary and into the open waters of the channel, the sails were unfurled, the oars shipped, and the longship steered to the south and east.

  Galaad had never been to sea before. He'd never been near a body of water larger than a lake, for that matter. And so the fact that he could see nothing to north but water and more water was more than a little unsettling. He found himself sitting more often on the starboard side, watching the rocky shore drift slowly by. It seemed to tether him, to give him some sense of perspective, though it did nothing to calm his roiling stomach, or to tamp down the bile that kept rising in his throat.

  “That's Cantium,” Lugh said, pointing to the land. “Keep an eye out for Saeson ships, if you've a mind to. They live on the island under Artor's sufferance, but there's nothing to say they wouldn't take the chance to test their mettle if they spotted the High King sailing by on a winter's day.”

  “S-Saeson?” Galaad's eyes widened.

  “Aye.” Lugh glanced at Artor, and then back to the shore. “We couldn't manage to push the whoresons off the island entire and had to leave clumps of them stuck to the shores in the south and east like balls of dung on the hairs of your arse.”

  Galaad nodded. He knew that two kingdoms of Saeson remained, held separate by Artor's forces at Caer Llundain. While not client kings as such, the rulers of the Saeson had agreed to a treaty that allowed them to remain, in exchange for withdrawing from the rest of Briton-held lands. And so in the former lands of the Icenii in the east, and in the region of Cantium to the south, the former invaders and oppressors of the island remained, in a wary state of truce with their erstwhile enemies.

  Still, knowing a thing and being confronted with it face to face were quite different propositions, and finding himself now a potential target of Saeson aggression on the open waters, where their seamanship would serve them as well as the Britons’ horsemanship had served on land, was an unappealing prospect.

  “Damn Vortigern's soul for ever inviting the bastards in,” Bedwyr said, coming to stand beside them. “If there is any justice, in his next life he'll be born a maggot.”

  Galaad raised his eyebrow. “Excuse me, friend,” he said to the Demetian, tentatively, “but do I take your meaning correctly, that you believe in the transmigration of souls?”

  Bedwyr gripped the railing more tightly and looked guardedly at Galaad. “Why would you know? What is it to you?”

  “Oh, I mean no offense,” Galaad said in a rush. He already felt queasy, and the fear of having offended one of the great captains only worsened his condition. “It is just that I have never met someone who still practiced the beliefs of our grandfathers.”

  Bedwyr nodded slowly, giving Galaad an appraising glance. “Yes,” he said at last, “I follow the ancient D
erwydd faith. There are a few of us, though fewer with each year, it would seem.”

  “Tree-lovers,” Lugh scoffed. “Feckless bastards, the lot of you.”

  Bedwyr's eyes flashed, and Galaad got the impression this was a familiar disagreement between the two.

  “And you, friend Lugh,” Galaad said quickly, trying to avoid a confrontation. “What beliefs do you hold?”

  “Me?” Lugh rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. “I believe in iron.” He patted the sword at his hip, which he'd refused to take off when the others stowed their weaponry with the gear. “As for gods and goddesses, spirits and saints, I was raised to believe the ancient lore of Eriu, but damned if I've seen any sign of the truth of it in my lifetime. If the great gods of wind and wave want to present themselves and give me a knock, I suppose I'd consider saying a few prayers, but otherwise they can all kiss my arse.”

  To punctuate his words, Lugh hacked, and then spit a huge glob of phlegm overboard, where it spattered into the dark channel waters.

  “Keep quiet!” Caius shouted from the far side of the boat, making the sign of the cross. “I don't believe in spirits of the waters, either, but there's no need to go around offending them, is there?”

  Lugh looked at him, struck dumb for a moment, and then threw his head back in laughter. Caius reddened, considered his words, and then joined in, slapping his knee. In short order, the laughter rippled throughout the boat, except at the helm, where Artor stood alone, hand on the tiller, watching the far horizon.

  The winds picked up as the day wore on, so that as the sun was setting, the white cliffs of Portus Dubris loomed off the starboard bow. The skies ahead were painted in yellows and reds, while behind it was already full night, the stars twinkling above in their countless numbers.

  Bedwyr faced the setting sun and began to chant some sort of prayer under his breath. He had produced a spring of mistletoe from somewhere on his person, which he clutched in his hands at chest level. Galaad could not make out any of the words but couldn't help but notice the devotion that seemed to transfix the Demetian, the strange ecstasy that gripped him, his eyes half-lidded. Was this how he looked himself, when in the throes of one of his visions?