“Oh Tom, that is wonderful! I knew I could rely on you.”
“Just be there. Okay?”
It was now a little after three. I had enough time. I put the microfilm carefully into my wallet where I wouldn’t lose it, turned out the lights, and kissed Marjorie gently on the cheek. She stirred and mumbled something in her sleep, but did not wake.
Outside, a cop sat in a patrol car. For an instant, I thought I saw someone in there with him, but when I looked again, he was alone. He made no move to stop me as I got into my own car and drove away. I don’t think I was followed, not by the police anyway.
Once more, at the top of those rickety metal stairs, I slid the key into the apartment door.
They were waiting for me, inside, in the dark, as I knew they would be.
“Leotfatu,” I said.
“Bearer of the eternal light,” they all whispered back, in unison.
Then I sat as directed in the chair by Frank’s kitchen table, while the men in black placed some kind of helmet all the way over my head. I remained motionless in the darkness for a long time, while electricity hummed and pins pricked my scalp. Slowly, waking dreams came to me, memories of lives not my own, of other times and places, from the collective consciousness of the Enlightened Ones. Revealed to me were the Mysteries of the Black Worm, the doings of the Bloodless Ones, the menace of the insane Mercenaries, and tenacity of our foes within the College of Adepts. I knew so many things Frank had only dared speculate about. I understood how petty—though still dangerous—his lifetime of research and investigation had been, and why, at the advent of the Great Crisis, such meddlings could not be tolerated, for all he somewhat exaggerated his ability to “bring down” our entire operation. It was all clear to me: the rise and fall of nations, the deaths of kings, why knowledge suddenly appeared when the time seemed right and was ruthlessly suppressed otherwise. I understood, too, how potential initiates to the Enlightened Brotherhood slept among mankind, unaware of their nature and destiny, directed and manipulated as I had been ever since I was fourteen years old and met Frank Bellini for the first time. My life was a script, written by others wiser than I, acted, directed, and produced until I came to this ultimate test, which would lead either to death or to true awakening. Nothing had been left to chance. To every thing, a purpose, under heaven.
When the helmet was removed, I awoke. I gave my brethren the microfilm.
And in the first gray of morning twilight, at precisely five-thirty, I heard Frank Bellini climb up the fire-escape to the landing outside. He hesitated for several minutes, touching and turning the doorknob, unable to believe that the apartment was solid and visible to him again.
He called out my name. I did not answer him.
When he entered and flicked on the light, he saw me seated on his living-room couch with my daughter Jane asleep on pillows by my side. I wore my regulation black jumpsuit, but with my goggles up on the top of my head, because I was not invisible.
“Tom?”
I raised my silencer-equipped pistol. “It’s all true, Frank.”
The look on his face was indescribable. I think it was a kind of joy.
The instant before I killed him, he must have known that all the ambiguity had ended, that this was no longer a matter of shadows and fleetingly-glimpsed figures. He had come, at the very last, in the clear light, face-to-face with one of the Secret Masters.
RUNNING TO CAMELOT
The greatest knight in the world? Ha! I knocked him off his horse!
* * * *
For days without numbering, for I did not know the art of numbers, I had inhabited that darkened, magical wood, amid the mosses and the leaves, touched by the secret wind which sought me out. Far, far within the labyrinth of oak and ash and thorn I began my life, there, not quite alone, not quite in the company of anyone either, in the shadow of a great black castle which seemed to fill half the sky. Truly the Moon passed between its towers. The Sun rose from out of its battlements. Or so it seemed to me.
But I could not enter into that place, nor even touch its walls. When I tried, the black stones shimmered and rippled as if I had thrust my hand into a pool and spoiled the reflection; and the castle would vanish and the forest close over me like a tide, whispering from its infinite depths. I was afraid then, and would gaze longingly at the castle’s windows, which alone remained visible, gleaming and hovering like fireflies among the boughs. Sometimes I could hear sounds coming from those windows, shouts, or laughter and music, or screams. But what I longed for most was my mother’s voice, as she sang amid her looms and mirrors and magic bowls, as she gazed out into time and wove the image of what was and what was to come.
If I lay very still at night, I could hear her voice on the wind.
But she came to me only in dreams. She stood over me as I slept in the forest, or crouched down and stroked my hair, or whispered sweetly in my ear, calling me her beloved son, her treasure. Sometimes when I awoke there was a gift for me, a blanket or a bright toy.
It was in such a dream that she bade me rise, and led me by the hand to the shore of a lake, where mist rose above still water. She touched the water with her hand and the mist parted, and I beheld, in the water, as if seen from very far away, the image of a splendid man on horseback in brilliant, silver armor. Somehow he drew nearer, and I seemed to be hovering just above him. I looked into his eyes and saw valor there, and tenderness, and perhaps a little sadness. I wanted to worship him. I asked if he were God, but my mother said harshly, “No, he is my enemy. His name is Lancelot.”
She wept as she spoke. Her tears darkened the lake to the color of blood, and the image was gone.
* * * *
I knocked him off his horse! In the dark of the evening, I commanded the leafy branch as if it were my own hand, and swat! He tumbled! Crash! Clatter! Oh, my mother would have been so pleased to see her enemy thus, bedazed and bewildered, his armor all splashed with mud, his cloak a hopeless mess; he, the greatest knight in the world sitting there on his behind looking more than a little ridiculous.
Oh, bravely enough he unsheathed his sword and stood up, tall and broad as he was, but not someone I could mistake for God after all.
“Who will fight with me?” he said.
I showed myself to him first in the form of a black stag; then as a small, naked boy-child who wriggled through the leaves and muck as quick as any lizard; and again as a grown man, clothed in bark and moss and magical armor made of leaves, my beard all a green tangle like a thorn bush, my green shield on my arm and a stone-headed mace in my hand.
“I will fight with you,” I said, “for I am a prince of this land.”
* * * *
It wasn’t Broceliande, but someplace like that, and my mother wasn’t Morgan Le Fay, but another queen, also an enchantress and Arthur’s enemy.
Sometimes Queen Morgan came to visit in the form of a bird, or as a white hind, or invisible on the wind and murmuring around my mother’s towers until the shutters were flung wide and she was admitted with exclamations of joy and welcome. They were fast friends, those two.
And sometimes, also, she came as herself, as a queen, in glorious state, accompanied by all her court, by her train of wizards and witches and ghosts: exquisite gentlemen and ladies who were hollow behind, like sails filled with wind in the semblance of life.
On those occasions she might even stop and converse with me in the forest on her way to the castle, and pretend to ask directions, or be warned of dangers, though surely she didn’t need to.
But mostly I was left outside, alone with the beasts of the wood, and when the shadows suddenly twisted and pale light crept through the forest like heatless fire, the bear or the wolf or the owl would ask me in their own language, “What is this strangeness?” And I would reply, “My mother and Queen Morgan are calling down the Moon.”
* * * *
So we fought, the greatest knight in the world versus the green monster. The stone head of my mace glowed like the rising, gree
n Moon. It cast sparks from his shield like shooting stars.
On my own shield, his sword made a hollow, heavy thud, and gave off no sparks.
So the forest echoed with the sound of our combat, with clangs and thuds, war-cries and grunts; and the beasts gathered to marvel at the fury of the fighting. The lights of my mother’s castle shone above, like lanterns floating on the air.
My opponent and I wounded each other full sore. His armor was streaked with blood and mine soaked with it, the magic leaves turning orange and red and brown.
He paused, leaning on his shield.
“What are you called, worthy foe?”
I replied in the speech of animals, all snarls and growls. In the frenzy of battle, I wasn’t sure I even had a name. Or perhaps my name was a magical secret my mother, in some dream, had commanded me never to reveal.
“Ha!”
Lancelot looked at me oddly.
I struggled toward human speech, like a swimmer struggling up out of the depths, toward the light.
“She…in the castle…calls me her child.”
Lancelot nodded. “Shall you then be named and remembered as the Child of the Dark Wood?”
“But I am a man.”
“Child-who-is-a-man then, Son of the Forest.”
“No,” I said angrily, grinding my teeth between the words. “I want a good name from you.” Somehow that seemed terribly important.
I didn’t know why.
“Be called Sylvanus. There is no insult in that name, and it could bear honor.”
I felt as if I had just received a great gift from him, and, for all he was my mother’s dire enemy, I couldn’t quite hate him.
That was when I lowered my guard. Quicker than I could follow, he threw his muddy cloak over my stone mace. The light in the stone went out. He struck the mace out of my hand, then flipped the shield off my arm, splintering it into a mass of flying twigs, and I was on the ground beneath his knee. My armor and my strong, man’s body melted away, and I was that wriggling, naked child again, pale as a worm, pinned with Lancelot’s sword-tip at my throat.
“Mama! Mama! Help me!”
Then a great wonder occurred. The black castle lowered itself out of the sky like a curtain, striking the earth with muted thunder, at which the animals standing about all scattered. The towers and walls rippled, then stood firm and still.
The gate opened, and my mother came forth in all her finery, mounted on a hippogriff. The creature’s golden claws scratched the drawbridge nervously. Its clipped wings fluttered.
“Sir Lancelot,” she said, “you who are the bravest knight in the world, leave this boy alone and come into my castle, where you are a welcome guest, and there shall be feasting.”
He let go of me and sheathed his sword. Mother turned slowly on her fluttering mount, and Lancelot climbed up behind. I was left sitting in the mud, completely bewildered. Suddenly ashamed of my nakedness, I drew Lancelot’s ruined cloak over me.
I did not speak. I watched them go. Just before she passed out of sight, my mother turned and called back, “You come too, my dearest Sylvanus.”
I wanted to protest that I was filthy and had nothing to wear, but she was already inside the castle. The gate rippled, like a reflection in water touched by a breeze. The glowing windows seemed to dance, far above. I got up and scurried across the drawbridge, which was cold and slippery beneath my bare feet. I came, amazed, to a courtyard, all the while expecting the castle to vanish as a shadow does, when sunlight suddenly finds it through rustling leaves. But no, the castle was as firm as any tree that grows in the earth.
A richly-clad courtier bowed and bade me follow. He did not seem to care about my appearance. But then he had a raven’s head instead of a man’s. He twitched continuously from side to side, looking at me first with one eye, then the other.
I held Lancelot’s cloak tightly around myself and shivered, all the while aware that I was leaving muddy footprints all over the fine, marble floor.
Golden doors swung wide. From within came a blast of light and warmth, and when the dazzlement faded from my eyes, I saw my mother and Sir Lancelot and many lords and ladies at table, feasting.
“Ah, Sylvanus,” Mother said, getting up. Everyone stood, raising their cups to me.
I almost turned and fled, but the raven-headed courtier took me firmly by the elbow and steered me to a place which had been prepared for me, at my mother’s right hand, below the dais where she sat with Lancelot.
Still I wanted to protest that I didn’t belong here with all these fine people, or spirits, or whatever they were, any more than a badger or a squirrel belonged; but no one corrected my manners or laughed at the crudities of my speech, or moved away because I smelled like rotting leaves and mud. Soon even I forgot, as I gazed up on Lancelot by my mother’s side, struggling to comprehend how he could be her enemy, or why, if he were, she entertained him thus.
I did not understand what guile was, not in those days.
If Lancelot wasn’t God, I decided, then he was a god, and my mother must be a goddess, his equal beside him. Like god and goddess they spoke, high above me, and they laughed together, and whispered, and their voices were like the thunder and the wind and the rain chattering through the forest branches.
Then their speech took on a heavier tone, and grew melancholy.
There was a moment of utter silence, as if no one’s heart beat in all the hall. And Lancelot wept.
(What a profound mystery! The greatest knight in all the world in tears!)
But the melancholy suddenly passed like the shadow of a dark cloud, and my mother the Queen called for jesters and tumblers, and they appeared, and magicians stood up to amuse the multitude with gaudy illusions. In the cleared space in the center of the hall, knights jousted for the pleasure of the company. When one pierced the other with sword or spear, the loser vanished, like candle-light snuffed out.
I looked up, and saw the pale Moon enter the hall through an upper window, high among the rafters, above the glare of the torches. It passed along the ceiling like a fluttering bird and vanished out another window; and so the night passed in feasting and revelry, until at last my mother stood up and clapped her hands.
Then all the company disappeared like a single burst bubble, and we three sat alone in the darkened hall. The faint glow of dawn shone through the eastern windows.
My mother said to Lancelot, “Remain with us here always, and be at your ease, free from pain and strife.”
But Lancelot replied, “Lady, you know that I must continue on my journey to Camelot to serve King Arthur. That is my destiny.”
Angrily, she said, “Then have a good look at it.”
And a tide of shouts flooded through the castle. I saw many forms struggling in the shadows all around. The Moon passed again through the window high above, and by moonlight I seemed to look out over a battlefield from some high vantage point, to where a king’s standard was in peril at the crest of a hill.
“Lady,” said Lancelot, “now I must take my leave of you.”
Without a further word he stepped down from the dais where my mother remained and drew his gleaming sword. He waded into the battle, cutting down foemen as a reaper cuts wheat, until he was atop that hill defending the standard, and Arthur, King of the Britons, fought at his side. The two of them were victorious, and the enemy melted away like bloody dew, while I watched, wide-eyed at the wonder of such feats, my heart leaping in admiration of Lancelot, who stood beside the King in the morning light, tarnished and bloody but transfigured on the battlefield of Mons Badonicus, where all Britain was saved for Christ.
Then the vision passed away, and Lancelot stood in the middle of the room before the dais, weary and leaning on his shield, covered with blood and wounds.
“Lady, I cannot linger. I must serve my king.”
He swayed and seemed about to fall. I ran from my place to hold him up. The cloak fell from my shoulders, and I stood beside him, naked and not at all ashamed, stead
ying the greatest knight in the world so he would not fall.
“At least let me tend to your wounds,” my mother said.
“The pain of them is more sweet than wine,” said Lancelot, “for I got them honorably.”
“So you did, but you won’t do Arthur any good if you bleed to death.”
As she spoke, sunlight penetrated the walls of the castle, and stone faded away like mist, and Mother, Lancelot, and I were in the forest, surrounded by birds and beasts, whose names I knew. I called to them, commanding each to fetch rare and healing herbs, while Mother cupped water in her own hands for Lancelot to drink.
Thus we tended him. After a while he slept, muttering of kings and glory.
I looked down at him, then up at Mother.
“But I thought he was your enemy.”
“He is,” she said. “I shall break his spirit.”
“It doesn’t seem broken at all.”
“Learn patience, Sylvanus.”
Here was an odd thing. When she spoke my name, it was not a great gift as it had been from Lancelot, though her speaking of it seemed to confirm that now I had a name by which I could go in the company of men. No, when she spoke it, it was just another word, made by breath and tongue.
I gazed down on Lancelot and wondered how I was going to manage to hate him.
* * * *
Though time in our forest did not pass as does time in the rest of the world, it seemed that a year went by. The seasons came and went, and Lancelot grew strong again. He took long walks with me, sometimes in brooding silence; but sometimes he instructed me in the ways of knighthood. I grew taller and, at first, wore clothing made of leaves. At the end of the year Lancelot gave me extra hose and a shirt and boots from out of his gear, and told me to try to make myself presentable.
Then there came an evening like that one on which we first met, and Mother’s castle rippled down from the sky, and once more she bade us come to a feast more magnificent than words can truly describe.
I sat below, while Lancelot and my mother the enchantress conversed upon the dais.
The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack Page 25
