The Camelot Kids

by Ben Zackheim

  Simon sat in a chair across the room and studied the bed, when he heard someone speak nearby. A man. The voice was muffled, but clear. It sounded as if it were coming from the walls.

  “Yeh can’t tell me she’s throwing you out for just lookin’,” said one voice.

  “Tellin’ you that exactly,” said another man. “Man’s a man but a woman’s a woman, so there it is.”

  “Off to the mayor’s then? I hear he’s moving against the wizard again if you can believe it.”

  “I believe it. The two of them been at it longer than the sun’s been rising at dawn.”

  “Fine with me as long as I’m tilling the fields when it comes to a head.” The men laughed and the voices trailed off.

  Simon didn’t know what to make of it. Was it his uncle watching TV? Maybe it was a couple of his employees. But why did their voices emanate from every wall?

  Curiosity beat claustrophobia. Simon grabbed some matches from the bedside table and lit the torch in the stairwell.

  10

  Leaning on the stone wall to keep his balance, Simon edged down the circular staircase slowly. When he glanced up, he saw his room far above, a mere pinprick of light. Should he have pulled the mattress back on top of the bed to cover his tracks? What if his uncle decided that it was a good time to burst in and give him more hell? No, the thought of being stuck underground with no quick escape was too much to bear.

  Finally, he reached the bottom. The small alcove was barely big enough to hold him. A door to his right was slightly ajar. With a deep breath, he pushed it open wide.

  The room was black. It looked and sounded empty.

  But it felt like someone was with him.

  “Hello?” He winced as his voice echoed around him.

  No one answer. Please, no one answer.

  He moved forward slowly. The torch’s glow bounced off of the spines of thousands of shelved books. He placed the torch in a notch on the stone wall. A long, narrow table in the middle of the room, covered in papers and tomes, came into view.

  As he looked closer, his eyes went wide.

  It couldn’t be…

  His parents’ stuff. All of it. He recognized the materials immediately. The first-edition copy of Le Morte d’Arthur, the legendary book about King Arthur, sat on the edge of the table. His dad’s telltale purple ribbon draped over its open page. The maps, the tin of pencils, even the coffee cups were familiar. The large map of Great Britain with notes all over it once hung in his mother’s study. He recognized her handwriting. Her “L” was more of a looping “C.” The same one he’d run his finger over on the back of a family photo taken in London.

  Simon tried to make sense of the markings, but there were so many that his eyes couldn’t focus. One red X, however, stood out on the map.

  The X went through a town in southern England, named Tintagel. All the reading his father had forced him to do on Arthurian lore finally counted for something. Some scholars believed Arthur’s castle, the heart of Camelot, once stood there. The ruins of Tintagel overlooked the ocean and sat atop a cave carved into the rocky cliff. Believers claimed the cave was Merlin’s domain, where he practiced his magic and manipulation to the sound of crashing waves. In 1998 archaeologists discovered a tablet there that mentioned a great warrior named Arthur.

  Still, even with this evidence, his parents had ruled it out for some reason. His dad’s favorite way to eliminate ideas was to put a big red X through them. A green line ran from his red X all the way up the coast of England and into Scotland.

  It ended in a bold red circle near his uncle’s estate.

  Did they think Arthur’s Camelot was in Scotland? His eye was distracted by a small sticky note on a book. “Call Simon!” was written in his mother’s handwriting. It was just like them to need a reminder like that, in plain sight, in pink marker no less. The note was the closest he’d been to his mom since they said goodbye in New York. He folded the paper up and put it in his pocket.

  Then it dawned on him. His parents’ prized possessions were strewn all over, as if abandoned in the middle of a busy day.

  Simon went back to locating his uncle’s house on the map.

  THUD

  Something moved behind him. He turned and saw it pass through the torch-light without a sound.

  “Who’s there?” He snagged his torch and swung it, ready to use it as a club. No one answered. A shadow slid past. He lunged.

  The torch stopped short of smacking Maille in the nose. Simon swallowed a screech.

  “I didn’t want to scare you, my lord,” she said, faintly.

  “How did you get in here? Who are you?” His voice cracked, but it was far from faint. He could have asked a thousand questions in one second, but he managed to control himself.

  “I told you before. I’m Maille.”

  “You know what I mean. Why are you here? Why are you following me?”

  Slow down, he told himself. She was solid now, but her form seemed to fade in and out of the dark spots as the flame danced around.

  Is she a ghost or something?

  “I’m here at the request of my teacher, lord.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s decided that you’ll only be safe with him. Yer in grave danger here. He’s asked me to give you instructions, my lord.”

  “What danger? Why do you keep calling me ‘lord’?”

  “I call you what you are.”

  “I’m no lord.”

  She laughed. But it wasn’t a laugh at something funny. It was a nervous laugh. She squinted at him, puzzled.

  “You mean your parents never told you?”

  “I know this is all really amusing to you, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She seemed genuinely confused. She glanced around the room as if scoping it out for a quick exit.

  “My lord, you…” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s my place to tell you this if you don’t know.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. Go swing your bat at someone else in that costume of yours.”

  “I never swung my… Costume? This is not a costume!” It was her turn to stew.

  “Go on. Get out of here. I have work to do.” Simon turned back to the map and did his best to make her believe he wanted her gone.

  “Fine! You’re Sir Lancelot’s heir, Simon Shorty… or whatever your name is.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “What do you mean, Sir Lancelot? What Sir Lancelot?”

  She crossed her arms, having decided she would now keep her mouth shut and watch him blow a gasket.

  “No, I’m not. Lancelot lived thousands of years ago. What am I saying? I doubt he lived at all!”

  “Oh, he lived. He was the greatest warrior of all time, and the greatest knight to boot. There has never been such bold blood in anyone’s veins, before or since. Until you came along. Though you have a lot of work to do on the manners front.”

  He tried to find the slightest sign that she was insane, or pulling his leg. She did smile, but she wasn’t amused. In fact, she smiled at him as if she knew him, as if she admired him.

  He’d let it go for now. The more pressing matter was her other comment. “You said I’m in danger.”

  “Your enemies have found you. They could strike at any time. Your uncle can’t be trusted any longer.”

  “What’s Uncle Vic…” Simon was distracted by a distant but clear pounding on his bedroom door upstairs. He looked back at the spot where Maille had been. She was gone.

  He sprang for the exit. He could hear his uncle knocking again, even louder this time. Around halfway up the stairs, Simon called out, “Hold on!”

  The racket paused and he heard Victor holler, “I’m coming in!”

  “No!” He reached the top of the stairs and stuck his head up over his bed.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  Simon could see the door slightly ajar, but his uncle didn’t enter.

  “I’m… exercising
.” Simon winced. Who would believe that?

  “Well, you’ll be up at six in the morning tomorrow. Hector has some errands to run and you’re going to accompany him. Stop your exercising and get to bed.”

  The door shut and Simon closed his eyes, relieved. As he put the bed back together he went over everything.

  First, his parents’ stuff was in a secret room under the guest bed. They never left without their research materials. Why did they get in a plane empty-handed?

  Second, why did she say that Victor couldn’t be trusted? He remembered that Red had also told Simon that he was in danger as long as he was in the castle.

  Third...

  “Lancelot,” he said softly, trying to distract himself from a growing dread. “Stupid.” Still, the messenger was a girl who could disappear into the shadows so the stupid idea had to be considered.

  He went over what his mom and dad had taught him about Lancelot.

  Lancelot was the greatest of Arthur’s knights. He was a dear friend of King Arthur, until he betrayed him by falling in love with the queen, Guinevere. It was made even worse by her falling in love with Lancelot, too. There were different stories about the knight’s fate, but the one that stuck in Simon’s head had Lancelot going mad from grief after the death of his king.

  Uplifting stuff.

  Simon had no idea what to do. Would Maille come back and give him instructions? He was such a hothead when he was confused. What if he really was in danger and he’d alienated the one person who could help him? He remembered the close call on the airplane and those creepy eyes in the park.

  Simon lay back on the bed, convinced he was going to fall asleep with a hopeless feeling in the pit of his stomach, when he spotted it.

  An envelope was stuck to the ceiling.

  It had a little red ribbon wrapped around it. He could make out a single word:

  “You’re kidding me.”

  How was he supposed to get up there? Desperate, he chucked his shoe at the envelope. Direct hit. The envelope floated gently down into his open hands. He tore it open:

  How did she know about the vambrace? Why did she want him to bring it? And he’d talk to anyone he wanted to talk to, thank you very much!

  Another envelope fell on his head. He opened it.

  “Okay, okay. Jeez,” Simon said to no one. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before he smiled.

  11

  Uncle Victor had been kind enough to unbolt the bedroom door, but was nowhere to be seen the next morning. Simon scarfed down a bowl of cereal in the cold kitchen and stared out the window. Rolling green hills disappeared into a white mist on the horizon. A goat on a boulder stared back at him. Simon didn’t think about the view much, though. He was up to his split ends in questions.

  “You look like you found the Loch Ness Monster in yer sink,” Hector said from a doorway that led to a serene garden.

  “Hi Hector. Didn’t get much sleep.”

  “That makes sense. New bed. New school.”

  Simon smiled. He couldn’t tell Hector that he was up all night arguing with himself about whether a girl with a glowing bat who could fade in and out of shadows was a fraud or a figment of his imagination. Maybe his sanity had taken a dive on the plane ride to Scotland. Maybe all of this was a dream.

  “We need to get going,” Hector said, closing the screen door behind him.

  “I’ll be right there,” Simon said. He made sure Hector was in the car before he stuffed some bread and fruit into his backpack, right next to the vambrace. The plan was to ask Red where Loch Duich was and to head out by foot immediately after the dismissal bell.

  Now that Simon could find his way around the school, his morning went better. Gwen still avoided him at every turn but Red hung out with him between first and second periods. They carefully reviewed all the classes they thought were stupid. Red was an odd kid, but Simon was grateful to have him around.

  “Do you know where Loch Duich is?” Simon asked as casually as he could manage.

  “Isn’t too far from here. Just north a few kilometers. Why?” Red said, peeling an apple with a pocket knife.

  “Uncle Victor mentioned it. Sounded nice.” Simon sat at a desk near the back of the room.

  “Loch Duich? If by “nice” you mean “bleak and haunted,” then yeah it’s the best.” Red popped a slice in his mouth.

  Professor Tillman jaunted into the room. He was in prime form. He waxed poetic about the end of the Elizabethan era while pacing and snatching books from the shelves to quote long passages. Simon gave him credit for passion, but he had a hard time taking the guy seriously. The muffled chuckles suggested that the rest of the class felt the same way.

  When the bell rang, students hurried off, anxious to get outside for a five-minute break between classes. Simon was almost at the door when he heard Professor Tillman clear his throat.

  “Mr. Sharp, a moment please.” Tillman dropped into his chair and leaned back. He kicked his feet up onto the desk and used his big belly as a perch for his hands. Simon steeled himself for questions about his parents, but he wasn’t ready for what happened next.

  “Tell me, son, do you have any details about your parents’ death?”

  “No sir.” What kind of question was that? A plane crash is a plane crash.

  “Poor boy, poor boy. Last I saw of them they were staying with your uncle. They believed very strongly that they were onto something.”

  “You knew them?”

  “I met them when I heard they were staying at the castle. I’d heard they owned a first edition of Le Morte D’Arthur so I was keen to introduce myself.” Tillman pretended to dig for something in his drawer. Simon was certain that he was lying, but he couldn’t guess why.

  “I…” Simon started. He almost told Tillman about the secret entrance under his bed. But he swallowed his words when Tillman looked up from the drawer, waiting for him to complete his sentence. Like Tillman, Simon wasn’t a very skilled liar. He tended to tell the truth, even if it made trouble. But was Tillman really the right guy to confide in? Oh, the hell with it. What did he have to lose? A home? A family? They were already gone. “I found a secret stairwell at my uncle’s place,” Simon continued. “It leads to a room that has my parents’ stuff all over the place. The first edition of Le Morte D’Arthur was on the table. My dad never left that behind.”

  Tillman’s jovial face disappeared behind a set of focused eyes. “But that would mean…” Tillman stopped himself and began to watch his words. “If that’s true, then your uncle has left their belongings alone for all this time. Odd.”

  “Maybe my uncle doesn’t know the room exists.”

  “Unlikely but possible, yes.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “I know him as well as anyone, which is to say, not very well. I know he does business fairly. I know he and your father didn’t get along.” His teacher’s smile reappeared. “Of course, Victor may think the quest for Arthur is a fool’s errand, but he was the one to fund your parents’ expeditions, after all.”

  Victor was the one who kept his parents’ operation running? “Why did he do that?” Simon asked. “He thought their work was stupid. He told me so.”

  “Ah, but what if they were right? Remember, they sought something priceless. Camelot and all it symbolizes can bring fame and fortune. Not to mention power.”

  “How can some old myth give you power?” But Tillman answered only with a smirk.

  “So, how do you like our little school? It must be quite a departure from New York City.”

  The change in subject made Simon feel he’d failed some kind of test. He wanted to get out of there.

  “It’s okay, I guess. People aren’t very friendly, though.”

  “Being in a new place is always difficult, Mr. Sharp. I remember changing schools quite a bit as a child. In fact, that was when I became interested in King Arthur. He was my role model in the face of adversity, always brave, even bold, and always ready to help others.
Make that a part of your life and you will do well.”

  This was the last thing Simon needed right now. A lecture on chivalry and bravery was not at the top of his wish list. Instead of comforting Simon, his teacher’s words felt like daggers.

  Lancelot. He wasn’t a descendant of Lancelot. He wasn’t fit to shine Lancelot’s imaginary boots. Simon’s anger at Maille grew like a brush-fire. How dare she plant that ridiculous idea in his head? He was Simon Sharp. A 14-year-old orphan, alone in a foreign country.

  “Are you okay, Simon?”

  Simon shook off his swelling anger enough to mutter a reply. “Can I go now?”

  When he glanced up at his professor he was surprised to see Tillman jam a pinky up his nose. His eyes were wide, as if it was as much a surprise to him as it was to Simon.

  Simon heard a high-pitched whistle, like a thin stick swung over his head. In an instant, the professor slid out of his chair, a dagger plunged into his chest. His eyes appeared both empty and surprised, and they were pointed at Simon.

  Simon turned and ducked. Every muscle in his body tightened, as if preparing to be stabbed.

  But there was no one else in the room. Just him and the body of his teacher.

  Until Chester casually pushed the classroom door open. He saw Simon crouched near the desk and smirked. Simon would never hear whatever stupid joke Chester had up his sleeve because just then the bully noticed Tillman’s bloody corpse.

  “MURDERRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

  Chester’s voice echoed down the halls and students started to shoot out of the classrooms as if the last bell before summer had gone off. He glared at Simon and blocked the door with his arms. It occurred to Simon that the moron thought he was the killer.