The Ring of Morgana (The Children of Camelot)

by Donna Hosie

  And it’s only when I reach the front door that I realise it’s open, and my mother, exhaling smoke through her nostrils like a sleeping dragon, is standing there, waiting.

  Rustin swears; so do I. My mum looks pissed off. Her jaw is jutting to the side and her eyes are narrowed. I’d rather take on heavy breathing ghosts over the mother I deliberately disobeyed. She can be uber scary when riled.

  “She’s back, Arthur,” she screeches. My dad comes bounding down the stairs, taking the last three at a jump.

  “You’re so busted,” calls Lilly in a sing-song voice. She joins the unwelcome party and then starts singing a new song as my mother and father glare at me.

  “Mila and Rustin sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I...”

  “Upstairs please, Lilly,” says my dad sternly.

  “But I want to see Mila get told off.”

  “Upstairs now, Lilly,” says my mother. “Or they’ll be no new bikini because there’ll be no holiday.”

  My little sister stomps up the stairs, leaving the four of us eyeballing each other. Rustin is panting from the running, and my ankle is hurting from where I twisted it on the gravel. I think half of the stones have made it into my sneakers.

  “You were told to stay in tonight,” growls my dad.

  “It wasn’t Mila’s fault, Mr. Roth,” says Rustin. “I asked her to meet me.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  Rustin gives my hand a squeeze, but I drop his fingers. I appreciate what he’s trying to do, but I’m quite capable of taking responsibility for my own actions.

  “Inside please, Mila,” says dad, and mum automatically steps aside. The two of them have always been close – at times they seem telepathic – and right now they are united in wanting to unleash hell on my duplicitous ass.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mila,” mutters Rustin, glancing at me. I half-smile, half-grimace. Now I’m the one breathing through my nose, although, unlike my mother, I don’t have cigarette smoke steaming out of my nostrils.

  Rustin turns, runs his fingers through his long brown hair, and trudges back down the path. He turns to me, gives me a strange, half-pleading look, and I remember why we were running in the first place.

  “Dad, can you give Rustin a lift home?” I ask quickly, and then I stare at my parents in turn, taking in each different set of eyes quite deliberately. “We heard something in the woods. Something’s out there. There was a light too. A blue light,” I add with emphasis.

  It has the desired effect. They say nothing, but they don’t need to. The terrified look my mother gives my father is enough.

  “Hang on, Rustin,” calls my dad, reaching for his leather jacket on the stand by the door. “I’ll drive you back home.”

  Rustin doesn’t even try and pretend to hide his relief. The darkness around here is absolutely impenetrable. Unless you know the way, you could end up walking into anything, or anyone, and you wouldn’t know it until they were on top of you. I completely understand why it scares my friends. It frightens me too, but in a way that makes me want to confront it in a perverse territorial way.

  “Arthur,” whispers my mother. She reaches out for him. “Take the girls with you.”

  “Sam...”

  He kisses her tenderly on the mouth, which is gross because they’re my mum and dad and too old for kissing.

  “I still remember...”

  “Not now.” Dad’s got his school teacher switch flicked to on. My mother is silenced – for now. Dad shuts the door behind him as he steps out into the cold March night, and the last image I see outside is a grey wispy outline framing him and Rustin as they walk to the car.

  “You’re grounded,” snaps my mother. Her cigarette has burnt itself to the filter. If it’s burning her fingers, she doesn’t flinch.

  “I thought I was already grounded.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Mila. Not today.”

  But a fire is burning in my chest. It’s fuelled by anger and jealousy and fear. I’m so sick of being treated like a child. My parents blatantly lie to me, and then have the nerve to get pissed off when I do the same. If they treated me with a bit more respect, with a bit more responsibility, then they would see I was equal to it, but no, I get shut out and lied to. Well, if they want to play games, then so will I, but I will get the truth from them if I have to wring them like a sponge.

  “Everyone saw you in town today,” I say slyly, not moving from the hall. “Katie’s mum saw the ring. Why haven’t you shown us?”

  My mother turns white. I can literally see the blood draining from the veins in her face and neck.

  “What ring?” she gasps. “Katie’s mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “And Rustin said you had a breakdown in the village,” I add, sickened at the way I’m behaving, but also glorying in the power I have – for once.

  “So this is what you’ve been doing,” cries my mother. “Sneaking out of the house and gossiping with your so-called friends about your family.”

  “I wasn’t gossiping. I was listening. You outta try it sometime.”

  “I’ll listen to you when you have something sensible to say, young lady,” shouts my mother.

  “I don’t mean listen to me, I mean the ghosts. You should listen to the ghosts,” I scream back.

  “What did you say?”

  “Listen to the ghosts, mum. Everyone says Avalon Cottage is haunted. I can hear them, and so can dad. We heard them today. And they’re getting restless. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? This has something to do with the ring you’re hiding upstairs in the wardrobe, doesn’t it?”

  The pain is instantaneous and yet immediately dulled by the shock. My face jerks sharply to the right as my mother slaps my left cheek. She’s shaking, but her mouth is open. The look of horror on her face must be a mirror image of my own because my mother has never slapped me before tonight.

  Pain and shock becomes humiliation. With tears burning my eyes, I push past my mother and run upstairs, tripping over every step as I stumble to get away from her. She doesn’t even attempt to stop me. Lilly is stood in the doorway of her bedroom; her blue eyes are wide, like coins, and her delicate little piano-playing hands are clasped firmly over her mouth.

  “Mila,” she whispers.

  “LEAVE ME ALONE.”

  The door to my bedroom slams shut, even though I don’t touch it. My blankets rise up and shield me in a protective cocoon, as I throw myself down onto the bed covers and sob into the fleecy fabric. The skin where my mother slapped me sears with a throbbing, burning sensation.

  I can feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket. I just let it go unanswered. My limbs feel heavy and dead and my chest hurts from the crying, but I cry and cry until I can cry no more. The tenuous thread that bonds me to my mother has snapped. I’ve always been closer to my father, but my mother has never physically attacked me before. As I pull my damp face away from the blankets, I replay the fight over and over in my head. What did I say to her to provoke her like that? I knew I was behaving badly, but I just wanted the truth. Was it my fault?

  Feet pound on the stairs, but it sounds distant. Whoever is rapidly ascending is not coming up to the stairs to the bedrooms; they’re climbing the other stairs at the back of the house to the attic conversion above the kitchen.

  I throw open my door; Lilly is sitting on the floor. I almost trip over her. Her pretty oval-shaped face is streaked with tears and grubby finger marks from where she’s attempted to wipe them away.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she sobs. “I didn’t want you to get told off.”

  I kiss the crown of her head; it smells like apples.

  “Stay here, Lilly.”

  But she grabs my leg. I stumble and catch hold of the pine wood balustrade to stop gravity from launching me down the stairs.

  “Please don’t fight with mum,” begs Lilly. “I hate it when she shouts.”

  “I’m not going to fight her anymore, I promise.”

  “You
are. I heard you crying and saying you were going to get revenge,” says Lilly.

  She starts sobbing again, but I’m confused. I never said anything of the sort. I was crying so hard I couldn’t speak. My diaphragm was hurting so much I could barely breathe. It’s still going into spasms now, and every pause in breath is matched by a painful hiccup.

  “I never said that, Lilly.”

  “You did, I heard you. Mum heard it too. That’s why she ran off.”

  “It wasn’t me...”

  “Don’t lie,” cries Lilly. “You said you were going to get revenge and take away what was precious to her.”

  “What are you talking about? I never...”

  “You did to,” shouts Lilly, interrupting me. “And you were saying it in a weird voice. An English voice.”

  What the hell is going on here?

  “MUM!”

  I start running down the stairs. Lilly cries out again, just as dad opens the front door.

  “Mila, what happened to your face?”

  I stop, but momentum betrays me, and my sneakers, still damp and covered in mud, skid across the tiled hallway floor. I end up slamming into the coat stand, which rocks before falling down on my dad. Then there is a splintering crash as the wrought-iron stand smashes through a mirror on the wall. I look up, expecting to see falling glass, and I swear I see a flash of flame and the face of an ugly old man. His bright blue eyes stare directly at me before the glass mirror shatters into triangular pieces which fall to the floor.

  Dad is swearing; he’s trapped under more of the stand than I am, and several heavy winter coats have fallen down on top of him, making it difficult to extricate himself.

  And then my mother’s scream wails through the house.

  “SAM,” yells my dad. He kicks out at the coats and pushes the stand away from his body. He pulls me up with one hand.

  “ARTHUR, IT’S GONE...IT’S GONE.”

  My mother comes running into the hall. The fallen stand, the jumble of coats on the floor, not even the smashed glass lying in glinting fragments, raises a comment from her.

  “Calm down, Sam.”

  “I WON’T CALM DOWN,” screams my mother. “DIDN’T I TELL YOU THIS WOULD HAPPEN? I DIDN’T WANT THAT THING IN THE HOUSE, AND NOW IT’S GONE.”

  A long shard of glass, shaped like an engorged icicle, is sticking point down in the tile grout. Just the tiniest fraction is embedded, yet it’s enough to make the shard stay upright. It’s like a dagger coming out of the ground. A lethal weapon. Crouching down, I go to pull it out of the floor before someone hurts themselves on it. The second my fingers touch it, I smell smoke and feel fire blazing through me. A bell tolls, deep in timbre, like a church bell, and then the shard disintegrates between my fingers. Nothing is left but powdery silver glitter, glinting on my fingertips.

  “What the hell is happening?” I cry.

  My mother is still freaking out and so I look to my dad for answers. He’s staring at the glass and his hands are on his hips. He’s wearing olive green cargo pants and several of the pockets are bulging with sharp-angles.

  “Dad?”

  “ARTHUR.”

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “We need to tell her, Sam,” he says quietly. “It’s happening.”

  “NO!” screams my mother. Her voice is so high it leaves a painful ringing in my ears.

  “Tell me what?” I ask hungrily. “Please, dad. I’m not a child. I’m about to finish school and go to college. You can trust me.”

  But my dad raises a blonde eyebrow, and with that one action, shoots down my last sentence. He can’t trust me. I deliberately disobeyed him and mum tonight. And for what? A soggy chip butty that I didn’t eat, ten minutes with one of my best friends before she started playing tonsil hockey with her boyfriend, and a bit longer with my other best friend before the ghosts scared the crap out of us both and I got busted.

  I start thinking quickly. If I can’t make this about trust, then I need to make it about something else.

  Something dangerous.

  “Dad,” I beg. I’m still on my knees too, which adds to the effect. “Dad, there was something out there in the trees. We heard it earlier, didn’t we? Me and you. And then Rustin heard it too. Even Lilly heard voices.”

  “Lilly?” says my dad, as if stunned. “But she wasn’t...she isn’t...”

  “That’s it,” sobs my mother, now totally losing control. She’s wringing her hands and moving back and forth as if she doesn’t know which way to turn. “We’re leaving the house. I’m taking the girls to my mother’s.”

  “What’s going on?” asks a frightened little voice. “Why is everyone freaking out?”

  Lilly is standing on the stairs, halfway between the hall and the landing. She’s holding a little red sequined handbag to her chest. Lilly has had that bag since she was four years old and she’s inseparable from it. She carries her worldly belongings around in it, and I’ve fixed the zip more times than I can remember. It’s her security blanket.

  She’s clutching it now because she’s frightened.

  “Everybody needs to take a deep breath,” says my father in his math tutor voice. He puts out his hands, palms down, as if he’s trying to calm a crowd. “Lilly, go and pack a few things for the weekend. You and your mother are going to stay with Grandma Scholes.”

  “What about me?” I ask.

  “What about Mila?” ask my mother and Lilly at the same time.

  My dad looks straight at my mother.

  “No, Arthur.”

  “It’s time Mila knew, and Titch and Bedivere are arriving tomorrow. They can help explain.”

  “I want to stay if Auntie Titch and Uncle Bed are coming,” wails Lilly.

  “Explain what? I don’t understand,” I say.

  I want the truth. I shouldn’t be able to feel fire and hear bells and see old men in mirrors. This isn’t normal. This is a whole parallel universe away from normal. No wonder my mother is on the verge of a seizure.

  “She doesn’t need to know anything, Arthur,” says my mother.

  “Mila deserves to know where she was born, Sam.”

  “Am I adopted?” I cry. “Is that why I never had a birth certificate? Oh my god, did you steal me from a hospital?”

  “No!” replies my father, shocked.

  “Am I adopted?” asks Lilly. She looks as if she’s about to burst into tears again. And then she does.

  “For Christ’s sake, no one is adopted,” says my father, raking his fingers through his blonde hair.

  “I’m not having your sister explain anything to my daughter, Arthur,” says my mother possessively. “I’m staying here. And what are we going to do about that thing? It’s still missing.”

  My father rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He’s the youngest dad in my school by a decade, and half of my friends think he’s hot, which is grosser than watching him kiss my mum, but he’s aged ten years in the past ten minutes. Shadows and lines have appeared on his face, as if someone has taken a stick of coal and rubbed it around his skin.

  “The deposit box, Arthur,” prompts my mother.

  I inhale sharply, but I say nothing. I’m not surprised by my mother’s earlier denial, although part of me hates her for the nasty things she accused me of. I wish my mind would stop running the fast forward chain of images it’s currently speeding through my head. I can’t concentrate and think with such a rapid blur of colour and noise. The cadaverous face I saw in the mirror keeps smiling at me in my head. It’s horrible.

  “Mila,” says my dad in a forced calm voice. “Could you please clear up the hall? Mind yourself on the broken glass. Lilly, you sit here on the stairs and stay with your sister. Your mother and I are going to look for something that might be lost, and we could be some time. Under no circumstances – NO circumstances – are either of you to leave the house tonight. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” chokes Lilly through her tears.

  “Explain what?” I as
k. They can’t leave me like this. Not knowing.

  My father bends down and takes my hands in his. They’re freezing cold, but he’s the one that shudders.

  “Tomorrow,” he says gently, massaging my fingers with his. “I promise you, Mila. Tomorrow we’ll tell you everything.”

  Chapter Five

  The Longest Night

  I’ve always taken after my dad in being quick to understand math, but no one needs to be a genius to quickly calculate that in my sixteen and a half years, I have slept through over six thousand nights.

  And this one is going to be the longest of all.

  Lilly creeps into my bedroom around 11 o’clock, and refuses to leave. She’s wearing bright pink pyjamas with fluorescent yellow love hearts. I need sunglasses just to be in the same room as her without getting a migraine. I change into my pyjamas: pastel pink ones, patterned with cupcakes that have spindly legs and wide grinning smiles. The room is so cold. I wrap myself up in a fleecy dressing gown because Lilly has already taken ownership of the bed and has made a nest for herself from the pillows, blankets and her teddy bears, which have mysteriously found their way into my bed as well.

  We listen in silence as mum and dad track the house. Up and down stairs they tread. At one point we see the powerful beam from a torch as they search the back garden.

  Good luck finding the missing ring out there, I think to myself, as I rub the condensation from the window with my sleeve. It’s such a jungle of weeds and climbing plants, even Grandad Morgan doesn’t know what to do with it.

  Lilly is fitful as she fights the sleep that’s trying to own her. She starts crying because she’s scared that mum and dad will get divorced, like so many of our friends’ parents around here.

  I stroke her long blonde hair away from her face as I try to reassure her.

  “Our mum and dad are the last people on the planet who will ever get divorced, Lil,” I whisper. “They might get mad at each other occasionally, and with us quite a lot, but family is everything to them.”

  “But what if they found out one of us did something really bad?” she whispers back.