by Ines Johnson
“I’m making dinner, not science,” Morgan snarled at him holding up a wooden spoon.
“Smells a little bland,” he managed to say. “You might want to add some spice.”
Her blue eyes flashed fire. “Domesticated goddess, I can fake. But you won’t soon get your wish of me barefoot and pregnant up under some squire anytime soon.”
She rolled her eyes and turned her back on him. Arthur could only stare. Barefoot and pregnant? He’d never demand a woman step back into the Dark Ages. He was a Renaissance man. But the idea of Morgan swollen, along with the thought of her bare toes, did unexpected things to his groin.
He took one and then another step back, feeling for the kitchen door. His clairvoyant aunt watched him with a knowing gaze. Arthur whirled around and made quick strides away.
He couldn’t begin to process what had come over him. He decided to chalk it all up to the presence of the hart and the magical and emotional disturbance the stag was known to cause. That’s why he needed to bag and tag the animal with haste so that things could return to regular order in the town.
Arthur made his way to the Throne Room, where the roundtable rested. He needed all hands on deck, especially when he was three knights down from the six that normally sat around the table. Geraint and Gawain were still on a quest—an unsanctioned quest that was a favor for a fae princess. Lady Loren, Dame Galahad, had yet to return from her girls’ vacay after saving her best friend, Nia Rivers, and the entire world from the apocalypse. Loren was the most troublesome of the three Galahad girls, so Arthur wasn’t rushing her back to service any time too soon.
He marched into the Throne Room and instantly felt a sense of relief. Once this room held two dozen knights around the ancient table. Now, there were only three active knights seated. Lancelot, Percival, and Tristan laughed as they all looked down at Lance’s phone. A few of the older knights, now retired from duty, stood clustered in a corner speaking in hushed tones.
There were a lot of unoccupied seats. Though there were many young squires, none were ready to be knighted any time soon. In some cases, there were no males born to the families. Though gender was no longer an exclusionary factor now that Dame Galahad had proven herself worthy of her great-grandfather’s seat.
It was another reason why the hart needed to be caught. Its magic was believed to increase fertility for magical kind. Arthur understood the need for heirs, the need to procreate. He was just a little less eager for the duty to fall upon him.
"Any news?" Arthur asked taking his seat.
The elder knights came forward taking spare seats around the table. It was bad form to sit in a claimed seat. But Lance and the others weren’t paying attention to Arthur. Their faces were down on Lance’s phone screen.
“You gotta check out this post from Loren.” Lance held up his phone to show a picture of the blonde Dame Galahad riding a dragon.
Dragons resided in three of the nine realms that humans would know from Norse mythology. Loren was currently being courted by the god Thor who resided in the realm of Asgard. The god was wooing her with ancient artifacts and mythic creatures.
Arthur expected an engagement announcement soon. He just wasn’t so sure if it would come from the thunder god or a certain ancient immortal who also had his eye on the first female knight. Arthur wondered if the first female knight would ever return to her duties. He also felt a pang of jealousy that she was getting more action on her downtime than he’d seen in a while.
“Can this meeting come to order,” he said with raised eyebrows.
Lance put his phone away with an affected sigh. “There's nothing to report. The Templars have been largely silent. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
The Knights Templars had once been great allies of the Knights of Camelot. Unfortunately, as their organization grew, so did outside influence. Corruption took hold of the Templars’ original mission in the thirteenth century and power changed hands. The new leadership determined that Arthur’s grandfather was the enemy and set the Templars against Camelot. The two sects had been fighting ever since. Until last year, when Arthur managed to cut off the head of the organization. Now all was silent; silent, serene, and safe.
“There’ve been a few posts on the dark web that lead me to believe a few ranking Templars are still active,” said Percy. He was the tech expert of the order, which was ironic because, though he could hack most encrypted databases, he still couldn’t beat the Super Mario Brothers video game. On the original Nintendo.
“What do these posts say?” asked Arthur.
Percy shrugged. “There was one post about a strange painting of a dragon, a fox, and a rooster. I assume it's a treasure map or a code of some sorts. I’ll have it cracked soon enough.”
The knights’ longtime foes had been dealt a massive blow when they lost the Holy Grail. But Arthur knew not to trust the Templars’ silence. It only meant they were plotting something new.
“They’re clearly trying to rebuild their ranks,” said Percy. “But it will take years before they can mount a formidable force, and we’ll never let it get that far.”
Arthur nodded. He wasn’t satisfied, but there wasn’t much more that he could do other than hunting the stragglers down one by one. That would be a waste of resources. He turned his attention to the other ancient foe of witches and wizards.
“What of the Banduri?” Arthur asked Tristan.
"The priestesses are holding to the treaty," said the young knight.
Shortly after the Templars had met their end, the Banduri priestesses had marched on Camelot. The ancient druid order believed witches and wizards were the true original sin mentioned in the Bible, and that their existence was an abomination to God. Luckily, only the older generation believed that fallacy.
The priestesses had caught the knights by surprise on their home turf, but their attack had been short-lived. Their leaders, too, had been displaced. The generation of women that remained weren’t so staunch in the ancient beliefs. The witch hunters had turned over a new leaf and were under new, less-homicidal management. Still, Arthur knew that tradition was hard to break. He wouldn’t be surprised if an elder rose to the helm to take power one day.
"If I may, my lord," said Sir Bors.
Arthur turned his attention to the white-haired man. Bors had been one of Arthur's father's trusted men and a formidable knight a few centuries ago. But he’d had no sons and his ancestral seat at the table remained unclaimed.
"The hart hunt is a time for courtship and not battle,” continued Bors. "Camelot needs heirs, especially from the Pendragon line. Magic is hereditary, not democratic. We don't vote who gets the gifts. And since your brother was unable to deliver an heir, the duty falls to you.”
Arthur tried not to sigh. Things did typically calm down during the time of the hunt. It was as though the magical animal demanded all attention be on it as it made its grand sacrifice to magical kind. He'd much rather have battle action than woo women. But a major part of his duty was to procreate.
“It is still an option to marry your sister-in-law once your brother finally ..."
Sir Bors let the sentence hang. No one dared voice the inevitable, though everyone knew the truth. Merlin was on his deathbed. Though the traitorous wizard clung to life, they all knew it wouldn’t be long now.
There would be no love lost in the town when Arthur’s elder brother did finally pass onto the next life. Merlin had betrayed Camelot and, though many tolerated his presence, they had not forgotten his treachery. Including Gwin, who still tended to her invalid husband and visited his sickbed each day.
Arthur hadn’t turned his back on his brother. Though he didn’t face him daily as his wife did. Still, Arthur wouldn't take Gwin to wife. It wasn’t due to brotherly devotion. The reason was sitting beside him. Lancelot's entire body was tense at the mention of marriage and Gwin.
"Lady Gwin is invaluable to me as Lady of the Castle,” said Arthur. "But she still has a husband to take care of, and then there will
be a mourning period … at some point.”
Tension released from Lance’s body. But Arthur knew the man wouldn’t go after what he wanted most in the world. Honor and duty bound them all to their stations. So, Gwin would nurse her villainous husband, while her heart belonged to another. Lance would defend Merlin as a citizen of the village he’d sworn to protect, even while he was in love with the man’s wife. And Arthur would do his duty, take a wife, and begin spitting out Pendragon heirs. Because, like them all, he was not one to buck tradition.
“There are many excellent ladies here for the Hart Festival,” Arthur said finally. “I will choose a wife by the end of the hunt."
As soon as he said the words, he felt as though the arrow meant for the hart had lodged itself in his own heart. There were no cartoon hearts that floated from the wound. It wasn’t cupid’s arrow. No, this arrow stung.
4
“That smells delicious, dear girl,” said Igraine. “You missed your calling as a chef.”
If the culinary art had ever called her, Morgan hadn’t heard it correctly. Mixing ingredients fascinated her. But the inedible elements were more her style, and she preferred a single Bunsen burner over a stovetop.
Morgan had begun mixing chemicals before she’d learned her first spell. Alchemy was an acceptable practice in the witching world, but not science. Still both magic and science had roots in alchemy. Alchemists were the first to group the world’s substances into material groups like wet and dry, and then earth, fire, water, and air, and later alkaline and acid. These groupings would come to make up the properties upon which the Periodic Table of Elements was organized. It was also the base of any witch’s brew or chef’s stew.
Morgan dashed a bit of salt in the stew, but there was still something missing. She poured a cup of sherry in, stirred, and gave it a taste. It still needed something. But what?
She eyed the cayenne sitting on the counter. The spicy pepper was capped but Morgan still felt her nose itch. She clenched her fist, but in the end, she reached for it.
After sprinkling in a dash, she gave the pot another stir. Then a taste, and … It was perfect. The fact didn’t entirely please her. However, she wouldn’t let the fact that Arthur had made the correct call this time to get her down.
Morgan truly had no qualms against goddess domesticity. But as a witch, it had never been a challenge. Spills were cleaned with a mumble of words, floors mopped with a snap of the fingers. Recipes were nothing but mini-experiments, tried and tested methodologies. What didn’t interest Morgan was catering to a man.
All the men she knew were more interested in the size of their swords than they were in the world around them. Their first impulse was to slice open anything new and spill its guts. Which would be fine if they then dissected it to look for answers. To the Knights of Camelot, mistakes and missteps were looked down upon as failing. Not opportunities for new pathways of understanding.
Morgan knew human women dreamed of being swept off their feet and onto the steed of a knight who wore shining, white armor and brought them to a castle. But Morgan knew the truth. Armor rusted, horses smelled, and ancient castles were drafty.
“You’re a ball of energy standing still, child,” said Igraine. “What was it your frazzle-haired German friend was fond of saying? ‘Life is like riding an autocar. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.’”
“He said bicycle,” Morgan corrected.
Morgan had met Al Einstein when her parents had taken a family trip to Switzerland back in the 1900’s. She’d met the failed student on the slopes and they talked about the substance that held the universe together.
Al believed particles, electrons, moved about in an invisible liquid. Morgan knew the liquid wasn’t invisible. With her witch’s sight, she could see the ether that held matter up. She’d tried to explain it to him, but she hadn’t thought he truly understood until years later when she’d read his paper on the General Theory of Relativity.
Morgan had let Al take credit for that theory. She hadn’t had much choice. If she’d tried to lay claim to the idea, she’d have outed the whole town of Camelot as witches.
But she was a witch no longer. Harry Houdini had more magic than she did.
Nearly a year ago, Morgan had run afoul of a magic-stealing artifact known as the Spear of Destiny. It was the blade that had ended the natural life of the prophet Jesus. A god killer, the blade was called.
Morgan had been trying to take the spear from her sister’s jack-off of a husband. For her troubles, Morgan had been sliced in the gut. She should’ve died. In a way, she had.
Gone was the powerful witch. Awakened was the empowered scientist. She’d taken her magic for granted, but she’d never done that with her mind. It was like a beast had awakened within her and it was hungry. Not for stew.
“Did your friend also say ‘A body in rest stays in rest, but a body in motion stays in motion’?” asked Igraine.
“That was Newton, and what Isaac actually said was ‘a body in motion at a constant velocity will remain in motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an outside force’.”
“Hmmm,” said Igraine. “So, what are you waiting for, dear girl?”
Morgan stared at Igraine. The elderly witch looked lucid and in command of her faculties. Igraine was over a millennia old. She had visions, and when she did, her eyes glazed over and she’d spout prophetic words that always came true, but not typically as one expected.
Igraine had never had a premonition about Morgan. It didn’t look like she was seeing things now. So, what was this?
“It’s advice,” said Igraine. “If you want a different life, then you’ll need to make a move.”
“The last time I did that, I nearly died.”
“True. And a lot changed.”
A lot had changed. Morgan couldn’t argue that. But something was missing.
A lot had changed, but a lot had remained the same. Morgan didn’t want more of the same. She didn’t want to beg for a single day to celebrate science. She wanted to celebrate every day. She wanted to do science every day. She wanted to go to school and learn more.
Though not prophetic, Igraine’s words were still life-changing. Morgan had to make a change. She could no longer contain herself. She set her feet in motion, stopping only to buss Igraine on the cheek. She left the kitchens and made her way down the hall.
She kept to the outskirts of the dining hall, which had been transformed into a ballroom for the evening’s hart festivities. Morgan saw her sister dressed in finery. Gwin was talking with a wizard from another town, but she was looking from under her eyelashes at someone else. On the other side of the room, Lance snuck furtive glances right back at Gwin.
Arthur danced with Constance Bors. He twirled her with grace and ease, but Morgan saw the tension in his shoulders. She could always spot Arthur’s tension, being the perpetual cause of it.
Morgan turned away from the festivities and continued on down the hall, keeping to the hanging banners. The family banners that hung from the ceiling to just above the floor concealed her as the town carried on its merriment. She’d never cared for dancing, not to string music anyway. She’d loved the ceremony of it all when she was a child. Now the pageantry of it all irked her.
The women lined up on one side. The men on the other. They took choreographed steps toward and away from each other. She imagined animals looking at the mating rituals of humans and thinking them entirely weird.
Morgan continued on to her room. She knew no one would come looking for her. The ball was one place she would not be missed.
Once in her room, she plugged in her earbuds to drown out the string quartet. She clicked a button on her iPhone. The Beastie Boys’ The Sounds of Science blared. There would be no waltzing to this beat.
She looked at her work, laid out on the wall. It was the Periodic Table. The blocks of groupings showcased the known elements of the world. But there were gaps. Some elements were missing.
Even at the in
ception of the table, there had been holes in knowledge, but those holes had provided scientists an opportunity to find missing links, or rather, missing molecules. Many elements had been discovered by looking for the missing pieces. Morgan thought she knew the path to one; one of the undiscovered elements in the gaps.
She’d been posting her hypothesis online. The problem was, she couldn't do the necessary experiments to confirm her hunch. The experiment was far too combustible, and despite what Arthur thought, she had no intention of putting anyone in her family in harm's way.
At least not intentionally. She wasn't irresponsible. She was careful and methodical. And stifled. She had to get out. And her golden ticket was in hand.
She picked up the acceptance letter to the university. She actually had many golden tickets. Acceptance letters from Harvard, Oxford, and MIT. But she'd never been that far from home. And she was certain it would be a fight if she tried to go that far.
Shortly after posting her thesis to the online forum, she'd received a letter closer to home. Cardiff University was interested in her theory. They'd invited her for a visit. And for the first time in her life, Morgan was determined to go.
Probably.
She stared at the email from one of Cardiff University’s professors, Dr. Simon Accolon. He’d been emailing her regularly for a few months now. He was politely persistent, intellectually engaging, with a dash of social awkwardness in his texts. Did she dare drop the virtual screen and show her true self?
After the Beastie Boys finished their song, dropping Galileo’s scientific orange. She tested the gravity and took a leap, metaphorically. She hit the voice dial on her laptop's app.
"Mr. Galahan?”
Morgan choked in the silence that followed. It was exactly what she’d been afraid of. Morgan was a gender-neutral name. In her correspondences, she had never bothered to correct assumptions about her sex. If she were going to go through with this, she would have to now.
“I’m thrilled you called,” Dr. Accolon continued into the awkward silence.
