“Do you think you’ll ever be able to leave the cottage?” James asked as he looked at his father.
“I’ll go wherever John goes,” Matthew promised. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for. Though I will admit, I’ve been outside of the world for so long that navigating it does seem rather terrifying.”
“I’ll take care of you.” John leaned forward, and they shared a quick kiss, the first one in decades. Mrs. Wylit applauded, and Lance joined her, laughing.
“I’m sorry I’m not more equipped for company.” Matthew in particular seemed exhausted, his voice creaking with overuse. “There are quilts in the trunk next to the desk, but I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you.”
“We’ll make do,” Mrs. Wylit promised. “I think that black and white tomcat wouldn’t mind being my pillow tonight.”
Lance leaned back with a satisfied sigh, and picked his teeth absently for a moment. “I suppose it’s best to sleep on it, but I wonder — what will tomorrow bring? Now that the quest is over?”
“Happily ever after, of course,” John said.
They all agreed. Except James, who hung his head in silence. There was still one thing he had to do.
Chapter 29
The laughter and voices in the cottage faded as the sun set and the night insects began their inevitable hymn. Matthew and John disappeared into the bedroom together to share the small bed, grateful, perhaps, for the forced closeness. Mrs. Wylit curled up on the loveseat, and Lance did his best to make do with one of the armchairs. That left Arthur and James, who decided to drag a couple of rugs and blankets out onto the heath and build a fire. The breeze from the cliffs kept any troublesome gnats away.
In the bright light of the unfiltered moon, they collected stones and arranged them in a ring, and then scoured beneath the trees for kindling. A couple of stove lengths gave them a fire, built more for the bug-battling smoke than to keep them warm. And so Arthur and James sat cross-legged on their bedding and watched the flames as they danced against the deep blue-black of the rugged Scottish sky.
Usually, Arthur waited for James to speak first. And James always spoke first. Arthur often joked that he was deathly allergic to silence. He watched his love, his best friend, open his mouth a few times as if to speak, only to pick up a nearby stick and stir at the fire instead. Sparks crowned their vista, and settled into the firmament as stars. And the silence was loud, roaring above the ocean rattling against the cliffs far below. And so, Arthur began.
“Beautiful.” He nodded toward the starry sky, so bright compared to theirs at home with its brilliance muffled by city lights.
“Yes, it is,” James agreed.
Arthur thought if he could put a crack in the dam, that the words would come out of James in a flooding torrent. They did not. So, Arthur said, “We did it. Found Matthew Barlow, that is.”
James was quiet a minute longer. “I’m... glad. And I’m glad my father was here. It seems like too much of a coincidence not to be a fated reunion. That gives me strength.”
“Why?”
“Because it means,” James stirred the fire again, “that some things really are meant to be.”
Arthur waited for him to go on. Within, his heart swelled and beat against his insides, insistent — now, let him speak now!
But still, there was the creeping silence, the fire-stick, the crash of the waves.
Well, perhaps a joke would help. It’s what Lance would do. Arthur could think of Lance now without pain, because there was only one thing left to put to rest. “Want to tell ghost stories ‘round the fire?”
James tossed the stick in the flames with an air of finality. He turned to Arthur and sat facing him, legs crossed. “I don’t need to hear a frightening tale,” he said, “because I’m living one every day, Arthur.”
“What do you mean?” Arthur turned his body to fully face James' as well. The fire crackled, forgotten, at their side.
“Every day,” James repeated, “every day I wake up terrified that you’re going to leave me. I go to sleep every night thinking you’re going to stop loving me. And I can’t live in a world where I don’t have you.”
Arthur kept his mouth shut, in the hope that James would continue. After rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye, he went on.
“You know what happened between Lance and I, don’t you?” he asked softly.
Arthur nodded.
James sighed, weary and watery. “I thought so. You’ve known since that very night.”
Arthur said, “I wasn’t asleep. I was watching. I thought... something might happen. And it did.”
James erupted in words, but Arthur used his deep voice to overcome them. “Wasn’t hurt by the kiss,” he insisted. “Not that. I understand Lance. This was a new world for him. He wanted some of what we’ve got, isn’t that it?”
“Yes, he did. He does. But he apologized to me. And it sounds like to you as well, though he never told me about it.” James hugged his knees closer to his chest, as if he could curl into a ball and disappear. On one hand, it was such a relief to speak of it, but on the other, he had no idea where this conversation led. There was no map to follow. His eyes burned with the woodsmoke and tears, and his stomach yawned a pit.
“James.” Arthur folded his hands together into almost a prayer, palm-to-palm. “You went all this time and you never said a word. Lance and I settled up before you and I did. D’you see the fault with that?”
Of course he did. “But I was—” he tried. James took a breath, and started over. “I was so afraid of what would happen if I told you. You have to know that I couldn’t face my life without you in it.”
“You think I’d leave you?” Arthur’s voice was so low a popping log in the fire muffled two of his words. “Really? You thought that? After everything? That I’d walk off because of some silly kiss or two?”
James' fear blanched his face. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.
“Because that says you don’t trust me.” Arthur’s hands went into fists at his sides for a moment before he exhaled and relaxed them. “Or that you don’t really know me. You really think — that I wouldn’t die for you? Haven’t I proven that I would?”
James said nothing, and let the silent tears drip from his nose.
“That’s the thing.” Arthur burst up from his seat to pace, the lines of his muscles straining against his shirt as he stalked a few feet one way, then the other. “That’s the thing. It’s not that it happened. Do you understand? It’s that you wouldn’t tell me. You were afraid of what I’d do, instead of knowing, knowing how much I love you.” He put his hand to his eyes for a moment, and then flung it to the side. “What do you think of me, that I would walk away from you after all we’ve been through?”
“I’m sorry,” James wept into his knees. “I should have told you that morning, the second we woke up. I regret it all — I made a terrible mistake.” He sniffed back a sob. “Whatever you want me to do — I understand. I’ll go away, if that’s what you want, disappear—” What will it be, he thought, the pyre or the nunnery?
Arthur’s shoulders relaxed. “You aren’t listening to me,” he said and knelt down next to James. He reached out with his massive paw and lifted James' tear-streaked face so they could stare eye to eye, green to green. “Or else you are still so daft that you don’t understand what I’m saying? You and I are going to be together forever, no matter what comes. But you have to fully and truly believe that for this kind of magic to work. Understand?”
James threw his arms around Arthur. Arthur stood and picked him up into a mighty embrace and held him there for a long time before putting his feet back on the earth. “No more secrets,” James promised. “Ever.”
“I promise, too.” Arthur used his broad thumb to brush James' tears away, and they both laughed through the pain that must come with such a healing.
“Starting over,” Arthur suggested, as they walked hand in and toward the cliffs to look at the ocean.
“The old
order changeth, yielding to new.”
They stood in the moonlight, their feet inches from oblivion, and sealed it with a kiss.
Epilogue — Glastonbury, 1983
Of course, Joe thought. Of course it’s raining.
The second he stepped off of the bus at the car park next to Glastonbury Abbey, the skies opened. The rain soaked his short-cropped hair, turning it from dyed platinum to soggy yellow. He cursed and pulled up his hood. The rain pelted his black leather jacket and dampened the backpack he carried that contained everything he owned.
Tourists scuttled for shelter or whipped open their umbrellas. Most were too preoccupied with staying dry than staring at him. Good. The last thing Joe needed was trouble. He paused for a moment beneath a tree near the entrance to the Abbey grounds and took a moment to pop on his earphones, press play on his knock-off Walkman, and light a cigarette. “One Hundred Years” pounded into his head and he made tracks for the address written on his forearm in Sharpie pen. 2 Dod Lane.
His path took him through the Abbey grounds, past the ruins and the tourists gathered around the alleged tomb of King Arthur. Bollocks, he thought. That was a lovely bit of chicanery whipped up by the monks in the 1100s to do what the city of Glastonbury was doing to this day — making money off of the legend. He snorted and shook his head at the idiots taking pictures of the resting place of some anonymous, unimportant dead person. What were they, or any human beings, except future unimportant dead people?
He was thoroughly soaked by the time he found the house. It was gray, with two levels and a built-on carport. The numerous, multi-panelled windows were all shrouded against the bleary afternoon with heavy curtains. It seemed quiet, abandoned, almost. This was in direct contrast to the yard, which grew lush with plants, shrubs, and flowers of every color. The small stone wall topped with wrought iron that surrounded the property could barely contain the vines and blossoms that spilled out onto the sidewalk in their summer glory.
Joe’s steps were unsure in their big black boots as he went up the flagstone path. But there, next to the doorbell, there was a small embossed plaque: AVALON HOME FOR WAYWARD YOUTH. He snorted. Like everything else in this tourist trap, it had a stupid King Arthur name. He paused, considered his options, and rang the bell.
Second ticked by. He felt each muscle bunch and coil. Would he need to fight? To flee? What was taking so long?
At last, a woman in jeans and a burgundy turtleneck answered the door. She had the same haircut as his mother, he realized with a recoil of revulsion, but where his mother’s perm was a mess of Aquanet, this lady’s hair had a natural curl to it that made up for its mouse-brown color. Her face was young — not as young as his, surely, but she couldn’t have been over thirty, and something about its innocence and warmth, brought out by her minimal eye makeup and peach blush, exuded health and goodwill.
“Hello.” She pulled the door wide. Behind her, he could see a short hall that opened up into an airy sitting room, and a staircase that led to the second floor. The windows in the back of the house were open to the light, as they weren’t visible from the street.
“Uhm, hello,” said Joe.
“I’m Rowena. Welcome.” She stepped back from the door, and raised her hand to wave Joe inside. Just like that, no questions. With a smile, even.
Joe tromped inside, and tried his best to wipe his boots on the rug near the door.
“You’re soaked. Back in a tick.” Rowena disappeared down the hall and made a right, and then returned a few moments later with a fluffy bath towel. “There you are. I’ll put the kettle on as well.”
“No milk, please,” Joe found himself saying, nice as you please, as normal as ever, as if he weren’t a stranger on the street. “I’m allergic.”
“Noted,” she promised. She looked at his backpack, which he had removed and clasped in his hands before she lay the towel over his shoulders and head. He thought she would offer to take his backpack, but she didn’t. He placed it securely between his feet, and rubbed the towel over his wet hair, neck, and shoulders.
“All right, I think the dripping stopped. This way.” She led him back into the house, past a country kitchen, and through the sitting room, which was done up in cottage style. She turned toward a white-painted door inlaid with glass panels and opened it a bit before she stopped herself.
The room beyond was some kind of study. Though the shag carpeting was unfortunate, at least it was a dull beige color. The walls of the comfortable room were lined with seven tiers of thin wooden bookshelves affixed to the wall with minimalist wire frames. Books crowded most of the space, but there were vases and little bits of art, as well as potted plants that trailed their vines down to the floor. These were especially prominent near the windows, where some of the shelves extended even over the glass. The room also had a plethora of photographs in frames, whether on the walls or sitting on the shelves. In the center of the room stood a rectangular table which served as a desk, a chair, a small shaded lamp, a typewriter, and a telephone. Before the desk sat a comfortable-looking houndstooth loveseat.
There was an antique sword mounted against the wall above the largest window. The thing gleamed as if it was polished every day, its blade and pommel reflecting every bit of light that could travel through the window on such a gloomy day. The weapon was strange, out of place, really, with the modern decor. Well, as modern as the early ‘70s would allow, Joe thought.
Two men sat on the loveseat, their backs to the door. One was bulky, with wide shoulders. His curly hair was grown out into a ponytail. His strands ranged from deep black to light gray intermixed. This man had his arm around a smaller chap, whose auburn hair was silver at the temples. He wore spectacles and a tweed suit jacket. The large man’s deep voice rumbled through the crack Rowena had made in the door. “And the result?”
“Lance said it was completely negative. He’s going to be fine. It really was only a nasty cold. But so many of his friends.” The smaller man shook his head sadly. “I wish he’d come back for a visit. Should I tell him to bring Eddie and come for Christmas?”
As the hulking form with the ponytail nodded, the smaller man leant forward and gave him a peck on the cheek near the corner of his mouth. Joe was so startled he almost dropped his bag, and flushed scarlet as if he’d seen something he should not have. He looked at Rowena, who did nothing except reach out and knock gently.
The two men sat up on the loveseat and looked at her, and then moved to stand. Joe thought they would be embarrassed at having been caught in such a compromising, private moment, but they only smiled and waved Rowena and Joe inside. “Sorry to interrupt,” Rowena said, “but did you hear from Lance?”
“Affirmative...and negative,” the smaller man smiled to assure her, as he removed his glasses to polish them.
“Oh, thank God.” Rowena’s relieved hand flew to her breastbone. “That’s so wonderful to hear. I’ll ring Mum here in a minute after I get the tea going.” As if it was nothing at all, she said, “And this is Joe.”
“Welcome, Joe. I’m James Wilde, and this is Arthur Pensinger.” The man put his spectacles back on, smiled, and extended his hand. Joe gave it his tightest squeeze, but was rewarded not with intimidation, but good humor. “What a grip. You must be an athlete.”
“I box.” Joe wiped his nose on his sleeve. “And I been in loads of fights.”
The large man nodded knowingly at him.
“Arthur?” Joe asked irreverently before he could stop his mouth. This is what he always did — spoil things out of nervousness, the bitter words escaping before he could stop them. Hurt them before they hurt me. “So you match the rest of this tourist trap shite, eh? That why you moved here?”
Instead of scolding, instead of staring at him in shock, everyone in the room broke out in waves of laughter.
“You have no idea.” Arthur turned to the one called James. “Thought I’d pop out with the lads. Take ‘em to the cinema, seeing as it’s too soggy to dig today.”
“Home for supper?”
“Aye.” They squeezed hands together, another gesture that floored Joe, and the large man left. Rowena disappeared as well. This left Joe with the professor, who removed his suit coat, draped it on the back of the desk chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his light blue shirt.
“I’m glad you’ve come.” He turned the fabric briskly past his elbows. “Rowena will be up with tea and sandwiches in a few minutes. She doesn't simply fetch the tea, though; she’s our substance abuse counselor.”
Joe nodded. He felt rooted to the spot a few steps inside the door, and he clutched his backpack tighter against his chest.
“You can stay as long as you need to.” James shoved his hands into his baggy trousers’ pockets. “All we ask is that you comply with our house rules and attend your therapy appointments. We do expect our residents to pitch in with the chores, too, so I hope you aren’t allergic to a bit of work.”
“No. Only milk. And cheese. Cream. Er — dairy,” Joe mumbled.
“Of course. I’ll be sure to let everyone know. In fact, why don’t I put you on kitchen duty tonight and you can help cook supper? That way you can help us understand what you can and can’t eat.”
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